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I spent every penny of my savings and took more days off of work than I could afford to visit her.

I became distracted by my anticipatation of the visit to the point of not being able to carry my side of conversations for weeks.

I could barely breathe when I finally met her.

And she doesn’t remember that visit.

I remember, though.

I remember her shaking while in class because she knew that I was waiting for her.

I remember sitting hip to hip, sharing headphones that played The Blower’s Daughter.

I remember eyes connecting and smiles stretching when she entered her dorm room to find me there.

I remember sprinting across campus and down Telegraph to get her medicine before the store closed.

I recall almost not getting on the plane back to Michigan; contemplating such bold ideas.

Now, I sit in the tiny apartment that was suppose to house her for a few days, but won’t.

Damien Rice sings and I’m trying so hard to be stong.

I haven’t cried like this since I buried my grandfather.

For the record:

For love, I’ll move across state lines.
I’ll struggle to get by in a city without familiar faces.
I’ll change my life so that we have a fair shot.
I cannot give myself away like this, though, unless it’s given back.
I will not.