The possibility of you sustained me over lifetimes. Through every lonely, dusty summer, and the tempest of our winter nights. Season upon season of your warmth and withholding. Such famine and feastings of the heart, endured.
The famine and feast my heart endured.
(That cracked continent under my skin, owing all its hungers to you).
You. The possibility of you. And me there with my finger held high, hoping I might read the weather. Will I need to wear my boots today? Will you open the door; will I be let in? When I fall, shivering into your arms, will it ever be both of us shaking?
Or will you always be colder than I remembered.
No matter now. All of that breath, and all of the holding. Now I’m ready to let it go. I’m ready for this slowest, saddest season. As I finally replace the possibility of you. With what you say – and what you do.
(I love you. But I don’t want you anymore)