It’s been seven years since you came to visit,
and stayed for a month.
I was sick and couldn’t work, and you were
in between jobs and partners,
and we were in and out of sleep and sex
and found something incredible in each
other: ourselves.
It was okay just to be ourselves
with each other.
You were kind and helpful and funny
and sexy as hell.
I fell for you so deeply
in our immersion into “us.”
It only took six months
to find the point
where the ocean meets the bay
at sunrise
and to profess
forever
to each other.
It was one month into our marriage
before you relapsed, but over six months
before I admitted (to myself, to you)
that I knew it.
The dope took you away,
and I realized I was the other woman.
You were already committed.
It’s been five years since you got clean.
It’s been one month since you begged me
yet again
to go out on a date with you
and one month since I, again, said no.
I don’t love you the way we did
when things were pure
and dreamy.
The monster claimed you and became you
and I’ve lost my ability to trust
that it won’t return.
I’m loving me now and loving me well,
with kindness and listening
and sensuality and beauty
and silliness and stillness
and good eats and great sleep
and lots and lots of love
the human and the divine in me
so that when I find love again
my partner will know how I need to be loved.
It’s not that I don’t love you.
It’s just that while you got clean
I’ve grown seven years older and seven years
deeper into knowing how to love me
and no years closer to knowing
how to love you.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.