I whistled, so that I could call you back to me. 

But I began to realize that the more I whistled, the more of you I kept inside of me..was

falling out,

through my throat, out of my mouth, where it could belong to anyone. A cry on the wind no one would know was a name.

Those parts of you were mine..and I did not want to share them.

I began to stop whistling, because I was afraid, that in my efforts to call you back to me, that the parts of you inside of me, in my heart, on my lips, in the shoulders you cradled —

— would disappear too.

But if I didn’t call to you, then it would still be the same. I would forget, someday, what your voice sounded like calling my name, or your hands, your lips, your smell. 

To forget would be no different than having never fought, as you fought for me. 

So I whistle again, because it would be better to have fought, if you will someday slip out of me anyway. 

( All the parts of you that made you mine, that were mine, that either way, without a choice, are slipping away from me. That force me to let go, even as I search for you. 

And I am not ready to do that. Not yet.

Come back. Come back. Comeback.)