There are as many ways to love someone as there are ways to say goodbye.

I remember you in the rain-soaked restaurant after a long drive to the coast, candlelight, and wine-drenched warmth.  And I remember the phone conversation where I said I couldn't do it any longer and the consciousness of the havoc I wrought.

And you in the dark with the taste of freshly gained independence in my mouth.  The illicit nature of being there with you, your hair running through my hands, the discovery of losing myself in the night hours.  And the slow, painful tearing apart that went on for months and months and months before I saw the writing on the wall.

And raucous, uncontrollable laughter in the most extreme travels of my life.  You my light, my companion of humor in what would otherwise have been extraordinarily terrifying moments.  Then the alcohol and the other women and the most painful goodbye on those long country roads.

I knew each of you so intimately.  You were as inextricable from my being in that given time and place as my own hands, my own heart. And yet we trudged ceaselessly toward our own version of goodbye. But at our peak, we were really something, weren't we?  Something to behold.  People would probably use the phrase "young love."  But that's a stupid saying, meaningless.

Slow, meandering moments in the dark. Long, tortuous lapses of time between each caress.  Nervous anticipation. One touch. In solidarity so painful.  In combination ecstasy.

Ecstasy.  A word reserved for you and I.  And you and I.  And also (probably) you and I.  In that particular time