How do I begin to explain myself

I think of all the things that would make it alright; this past that we want to recreate, of mango sorbets and french toasts and I can't think of any. There is nothing that you or I could say or do to change what has happened. I mourn the loss of this past as you do too. I seek to reach you that we may mourn together. I pick up the phone to call you. The first four digits, I am sure I want to talk to you. Doubt begins in digit five. What should I say, I ask. By sixth digit I ask Who am I calling? This person who exists or another who existed. Seventh and eighth goes by with nostalgia. I am burdened with memories. Happy memories. Of the moon and starry nights. Of poetry and potatoes. Of the unbearable lightness of being and becoming. Their oppressive weight pushes me from my phone, that portal to you, and reach out for fresh air. I go for a walk and the trees and the birds assure me that the winter is past. It begins to rain. Not a shower as much as a drizzle. Just enough to wet me. Water trickles down me. I return home fresh and renewed. The phone is in the corner and its beckoning doesn't reach me. A month shall pass before I turn towards her again. And she lures me. Her viper-voice. I reach to touch. To pick her up. Cradle her in my arms and coo in her ears. A week goes by before I get the courage. I resist, she lures. I touch, she stirs. And we play our game again. I begin to dial the numbers and the viper-voice changes tone and is telling me I need to break the time-space continuum to make my call. Good luck with that. I checked the journals; we are not there yet. Maybe in a decade. So I drop the phone and walk again. and the trees and birds assure me that winter is behind us. Memories fade. Like the stain of mango pulp on my favourite white shirt. Slowly slowly with each wash. And it is good that it melts for what good is the stain. I cannot taste it. Not anymore. Its bitter sweetness exists only in my head. I think of all the things that could make it alright, this past that we want to recreate, of mango sorbets and french toasts and I can't think of any. There is nothing that you or I could say or do to change what has happened. I mourn the loss of this past as you do too. But even in grief, we cannot mourn together. We are far. We are far. I do not seek to reach you anymore. I simply love.