I know it’s been a long time and I’ve lived another life time since we met.
In answer to my last question,
it was sixteen months and three days until my heart was my own again,
predictably and painfully,
it was plucked, once again, from my bruised body,
flying high above my head into her arms.
but still a her,
so it’s still an issue.
I issued an apology to my tearful soul and breathed like it was my last chance,
long and deep,
approaching rejection with some kind of intuition,
not to her,
but to half of my blood,
to ask permission to feel.
It would never be granted,
like an elusive dream,
leaving her life,
leaving her in a lonely, locked bedroom to crawl back to the safety of solitude,
while I surrendered to the stoicism and sufferance.
Why did you let me believe that it would end any other way?