If I Was To Turn Up At Your Door

If was to turn up at your door, would you still look at me the way you always used to; like I was the answer to questions you didn’t even know you had? Would your face crumple as the pain of the way I left comes rushing back in? Or would it light up in the way it used to when we finally saw each other after months apart during my college days? Would you know what to say to me? Would you ask why I was there?

If I was to turn up at your door, would you invite me in? Would we sit on the sofa we bought together? That day in the middle of autumn when we spent hours in that shop which smelt of leather and brand new carpets and hopped from one sofa to the next, smoothing our hands over the fabrics, sitting as if we were already in our home with it. When I chose my favorite spot on the sofa we eventually bought, and I spent the next three years there, nestled into the corner with a coffee and my journal. Would you still sit in the same spot, on the end, nearest the door, where I could rest my legs on your lap and let you idly stroke them on cozy winter evenings? Or would you have a new spot now, one which is not based upon my happiness and comfort? Would you offer me a drink? Would we sit and drink strong coffee together, would you remember how I have it? Would it all just come flooding back as if no time existed between us?

If I was to turn up at your door and tell you that every day for the last three years, I have thought of you, would you believe me? Would you hold me as I cry and confess to you that sometimes, late at night, I wish you were lying beside me? Would you know the pain of wanting to talk to you every day, of venting to you about the things only you would know what to say to? Would you tell me that sometimes you have that desire too? Would you tell me that sometimes you type out texts to me, only to erase them out of fear I might not reply?

If I turned up at your door, would you tell me that I’m too late? Would you scream and shout and tell me that if I had just come sooner, maybe there would be a chance for us? Would you tell me that someone else shares the home we bought together? That she sleeps on my side of the bed? That she sits at the dressing-table you chose for me and does her makeup in the mornings? Would you tell me that your heart belongs to her now? That there is nothing left of me inside of you? Would you say I caused you too much pain, that she filled the hole I left?

If I turned up at your door, would you fall into my arms? Would you thank the universe for bringing me back to you? Would you tell me that you’ve been waiting, hoping that this day would come? Would you tell me that even though I left you, I never left your thoughts, that you could never love again after what you experienced with me? Would you tell me that the years which stretch between us now mean nothing, that we can pick up exactly where we left off? Would you tell me that you finally feel whole again? That you’ve been searching for meaning for the past three years and you know now that it was me?

If I turned up at your door, would you recognize me? Not my body or my face but my soul? Would you remember the way I tuck my hair behind my ear when I’m nervous? Would you remember the exact time of my laugh when all I want is to cry? Would I feel like the same nineteen-year-old you fell in love with seven years ago? Or would I be a stranger to you now?

If I turned up at your door would you tell me that you’ve been asking yourself all of these questions too? Would you tell me that it would be so easy for us to fall back into the same routine where we loved each other but not enough, where we laughed but not hard enough, where we listened but didn’t hear? Would you tell me that the love we shared can be so idealized when it’s gone? Would you tell me that you’ve spent hours convincing yourself that our paths were always going to divide and you have made your peace with that?

Would you tell me to go into the night again, alone, that I’m searching for a love which we never truly had? Would you tell me that it was beautiful and poetic and real but we both deserve more than we were ever capable of giving to each other? Would you promise me I’ll find it? Would you kiss me delicately on the cheek and pull me in just long enough for me to remember the scent of you, and then set me free?

I hope so.

Dear God, I hope so.