I loved him for his rare touch—the touch that didn’t make me shake.

For those eyes that shied away so easily. For those lips that told me I deserved more.

For the fact that we could never get through a movie, even when Clint Eastwood was involved…or maybe it was the endless jokes that only we found funny.

Maybe it was the way he closed his eyes when he played Bob Dylan songs.

Possibly it was those times when he called me sexy and pulled me back into his arms.

I loved him for all the times we laid on the bed, on sand, and on everything in between. I loved him for the way his place smelled like a mix of Nag Champa and grass, before I even walked in the door.

I was high off of something before needing to pick up a lighter.

I loved him just because.

I can’t explain it any other way.

He left.

He left when I could have used the most love. It took the deepest pain, mixed with his absence, to realize I do not need to love him, to fill my heart any longer.

I fill my heart.

I love me for how I stroke my own hair. For my olive green eyes that gaze back at me in the mirror. For my slightly pink lips and the smile they produce. For the fact that I can’t get through a Bond movie without wanting to be Bond, not the Bond girl. Or maybe it’s the jokes I make in my head that no one will ever hear.

Maybe it is how I close my eyes when I listen to Bob Dylan songs.

Possibly it is those times when I fall onto my bed after a difficult run, feeling strong.

I love me for the times I’ve sat alone on beds, beaches, and tree branches. I love me for the way people constantly smell Nag Champa on me.

And when asked, I always have a colorful lighter.

I love me just because in the end, I am all I have. The best part is that there is no worst part.

Somewhere along the way I’ve taken back my heart without forgetting the times I loved.

I’ve loved, but that was then.

Now I’m busy loving me.

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Editorial Assistant: Amani Omejer / Editor: Bryonie Wise

Photo: elephant archives