Losing my grip.

I’ve been most afraid of this.

The time when I no longer carry you as closely in my heart or my head. When I no longer say “I love you” to the moon, or wave at a passing raven. For long enough, I’ve held your hand inside of mine when the sun passes over my skin.

I get to love you wholly, and perhaps even more-so now.

Fearing the absence of love has kept my hands strong as to not lose my grip on us. On a love that is once in a lifetime. Yet, they all are. Every love if unique, never to be repeated. You are to never to be repeated, yet repeat over infinitum we are destined to. Different names, different faces, different places, but our story is one that is to play out again and again.

I am to let you go.

Whats the difference if it is after 30 years or 300?