The melancholy of maybe

Maybe you couldn't stop the downpour for me, and maybe the umbrella was never big enough for the two of us. But you let go of that umbrella and together we walked in the rain.

Maybe you couldn't always make me smile when I was sad, and maybe sometimes you didn't understand me at all. But you stayed by my side and provided me the warmth and silence that spoke loudly enough to be the only comfort I needed.

Maybe you never really knew how I liked my coffee, and maybe you couldn't relate to my love for books. But you quenched my thirst and let me get drunk on your love, you let me read all the things you hid in between the folds of your heart that couldn't be expressed by simple words and had never been seen by anyone else.

Maybe you couldn't take me to all the places we wanted to go, and maybe you couldn't grant my every wish. But you left yourself open to me, you let yourself be a place I'm always welcome to no matter how much damage I bring to you. You were my home and that was more than I could wish for.

Maybe you couldn't dance, sang off key, and maybe you weren't really good at drawing and painting. But you perfectly knew the steps of my heart, you perfectly heard and memorized every rise and fall of my melody no matter how broken it sounded and you held the paintbrush to vividly add color to my blacks, whites and dull greys.

Maybe you weren't always gentle. But your roughness was a storm and you always let me sit in its eye, never letting me feel its wrath.

Maybe you were flawed and imperfect, and maybe you weren't what I thought I needed.

But there is no maybe in how blind I was, there is no maybe in how much I love you and there is no maybe in the ocean-deep and endless regret that I feel.

And maybe, I can't bring you back anymore.

You, my metaphorical umbrella, my warmth and miles of silence and comfort, my favorite coffee and favorite book, my home and my every dream, the keeper of the steps and song of my heart, the color to my world, the storm that always kept me safe in despite of its wrath, every single 'maybe' that I love.

And the holder of every single piece of 'me'.

Maybe if I have the chance to undo everything you did, I wouldn't.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd want to do it all again, just the way you did it but end up with the maybe of how I didn't know the feeling of losing you.

...