Beneath the Spanish Moss

Savannah seduced me the moment we arrived.

The air was thick, warm, clinging to my skin like a secret. The city whispered with old soul charm—the kind that draws you in slowly and doesn’t let go. Spanish moss dangled lazily from ancient oaks, swaying like lace in the breeze, casting shadows that danced along cobblestone paths. It had been years since we’d been here, but the familiarity stirred something inside me—something I didn’t expect to feel again.

We moved through the city like two ghosts haunting our own past. Smiles came easier than they should have. We walked hand-in-hand through the City Market, toes sinking into soft sand at the beach, letting the hum of Savannah lull us into forgetting—if only for a moment. There were no fights. No heavy sighs. Just the illusion of connection. The seduction of pretending I was still in love.

Each day we’d take the ferry to River Street. The gentle rocking of the boat, the hum of the water beneath—it felt intimate, almost erotic in its stillness. It was there that I saw her. The woman across from us. Eyes empty. Shoulders slumped under invisible weight. Her sadness didn’t need words—I felt it pour into me like a current. I closed my eyes and began to pray for her. Softly. Silently. For God to wrap her in strength. For Him to hold her the way she hadn’t been held in a long time.

And just like that, my own tears fell. Quiet and uninvited. Maybe they were hers. Maybe mine. Maybe both. Because I knew that kind of pain. I’ve worn it. I’ve hidden it. I’ve let it kiss me goodnight more times than I can count.

And while the city cradled us in its warmth, I realized something with aching clarity—I don’t love him the way I used to. The intense, all-consuming fire that once burned so hot for him has cooled to embers. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this… distant. From the man who used to be my whole world. But I have changed. Quietly. Deeply. Seductively.

I still pray—just as I did for that woman on the ferry. For timing. For release. For the courage to walk away when God says it’s time. Not in anger. Not in bitterness. But in peace. In truth.

Savannah was beautiful. But what stirred me most wasn’t the city—it was the realization that my heart has already started saying goodbye.