I come to you without ceremony, without expectation or hope of redemption, without knowing if you’re the right thing or the wrong thing–the difference being, this time, I don’t particularly care. I know you’re not the only thing. There are dishes to wash, bills to pay, and I wasn’t done talking to the woman in customer service at Verizon. But the frustrations of daylight have sunk down on the horizon, and it’s just you and me and this laptop, this desk. So here we are.

It’s not because I’ve been away for too long, though I have, or because I feel restless when I’m not with you, though I do. It’s not because I believe you’ll change my life, for better or worse. I’ve learned enough by now that, even though you may, I can’t rely on that. It can’t be the reason I approach you, worn and weary, nor can I torment myself with the fact that, if I don’t, someone else’s life may go unchanged. This is all truth, but it is not absolute.

There should be more celebration than this. A parade, a band of trumpets, confetti tossed to announce a long-awaited reunion, but there’s none of that. Except for my roommate, I’m alone with you, and no one knows what we’re doing. No one knows, including me, why, after months of separation, today would be the day we come together once again. Maybe there is no reason, except that it’s Monday, and that yesterday, I told myself today would be the day. Because. Just because.

To think “because” could be enough. To think loving you for the sake of what you are could be, again, enough. To think of all the days I spent tormenting myself over how I fit into your grand fabric, how I would ever manage to belong in that great patchwork quilt, how I would ever have the strength to keep myself woven in all my life. To think how it took falling clean away to bring me back to you, today of all days, without ceremony, with nothing but intent.

Without expectation or hope of redemption, but with hope of something, though I can’t say what. I come to you, once again, and see what I did not see before. How? Why now? I’ll never know. Or maybe I will, but that’s not the point. I’d tell you I’m sorry, but airborne words are not what you want. You want solid words, black, Times New Roman. You want dusty documents reopened, “date modified” updated, the stick back in the cauldron, stirring, stirring, stirring, until something like a story rises from within.