meet me in our secret place

I can't even fathom how much I miss England, London, Leeds.
For whatever reason I thought it would be a good idea to look through my old photos, and I found them (is it considered finding when you know exactly where to look?) in a folder hidden inside a folder hidden inside another folder, so as not to accidentally come across it while searching for something else in the maze that is my hard-drive.
Suddenly I find it hard to breathe, like my chest is about to cave in any second now, a knot tightening inside my stomach, palms starting to sweat, memories flooding and flowing through my mind; I try my best not to grasp, cling, hold onto them. Ride it out. Just let them slip away. I find myself wondering if my eyes have changed since then, and I realize that my finger suddenly feels light, empty; there used to be a ring on it, always, and now it feels wrong, and I'm starting to panic, and the more I think about it, the worse it feels, and I'm just about ready to chop it off to get rid of this phantom sensation, and my heart aches; it misses, it longs, it craves.

Somewhere on a bench in Hyde Park, our initials are carved.

It's not even so much that I miss him, but the places, the feelings, the lightness of it all, the vividness, the safety, feeling at home. I haven't thought about any of this in so long, so long, and it's overwhelming, and I find myself wondering if I'll ever experience anything like it, ever again. A life where nothing and everything mattered, with no tomorrow to worry about, a calm place to rest, a shelter from the storm, a home. I swore never again, but what does that matter, anyway?

(I knew this wasn't a good idea.)