This is a sacred place.

I know, because I think I’ve been here before. Casting my hands out into the darkness, hoping to pull something important out of it. Grasping at straws, by which I really mean that I’m grasping at hope. Hope that I would find something I have not yet found.

I wanted meaning. I moved to a big city, all alone, searching for answers to my hollowness. A better job, new friends, an exciting city life. What I found was loneliness, sickness, emptiness. For a while.

Then there was you. My light in the darkness. My hope, budding and blossoming. You know, I was never worried that we would end, not on the first day, not six months later. I never decided to put down the sword and shield and stop fighting. Fighting for you and for love that I had never known before.

Annnnnd here come the cliches. It was hard. Love is hard. Anything that’s worth having is worth fighting for, no matter how painful it gets. Anyone knows that. Even when there is anger, there is love. It may be small and shrivelled, lacking the nourishment that will bring it shooting out from the dark soil towards the sunlight. But the anger doesn’t last. It is always the love, and the flower always blooms again.

I left my sacred place to find meaning. And I found something more important than I ever thought I would find. While I climbed the trellis and gazed out over the concrete jungle of my thoughts (and my surroundings) that I never really liked, I realised that liking wasn’t the point. Living was the point. Loving was the point. Finding the person that made even a dumpster view and swelteringly painful humidity have a point.

The point is that my sacred place is not really a place at all anymore. My sacred place is in the arms of that person that means more to me than any apartment, or house, or neighbourhood.

You are my sacred place.