So.

The little I know about leaving: there is always something that stays. You left long before I could say anything, long before I began to notice.

What used to offer now pulls away; you are three fields ahead of me walking hand-in-hand with what is to you a force of nature. How grateful you are for the presence of a storm, standstill amazement she walks in quiet beauty and does not slip through your fingers, does not run away. Secretly you wonder when the winds will blow her back to a time before you, or hastily push her into a time after.

Are you still afraid that she will leave you the way you leave everyone else.