August fifth.
Two thousand and four.
Twelve midnight.
This time I recognized
the fading heartbeat,
the Cheyne-Stokes respirations
that accompany the departure
of love.
I have seen it before,
two years ago when
my ex-husband called me
to tell me never to
come home again.
I didn't recognize it then,
the signs that it was too late...
I commenced to begging,
to coming home anyways,
to calling, to pleading,
to following him around
asking him not to give up
our family, the past
thirteen years.
I begged him for another chance.
I begged him to love me...
and how egotistical the thought
that you are the only one
who has ever suffered,
that your past gives you license
to be so horrible to others,
to those who loved you,
that you are such a special case,
the only one who has ever suffered.
This time I recognized
the point of no return,
the fact that you had been waiting
for the perfect moment and excuse
to let me go, just like he had done.
This time, I won't beg.
If the love is really gone,
if it meant so little to you,
then I am wise enough to know,
there will be no second coming of...
Christ, then why does it hurt so bad?
Love never leaves without
a big jagged hole of grief
left inside the heart...
It may scar over,
but the heart will never
be quite so strong ever again.
Love never goes quietly,
but my lips are sealed.
Forevermore.
