Sunday, 16 December 2012

Time to say goodbye, my love.

Saying  goodbye, I am not good at it.

 I'd rather you think I have temporarily left the room and I'm going to come back in a few minutes. Like shadows dancing a long slow tango in the evening sun, I am restless.   I can't bear permanence,  imagine offering a specimen tray to a butterfly. Change is oxygen. I am the child who finishes the jigsaw puzzle and then tears it apart to start over or who throws the deck of cards up in the air, just to see where they might land.

But good things came out of time well spent and now, time pondering  to bring the thoughts and the feelings back home. To me. It's like asking for my love letters back, but when I wrote them, I meant every word in them and I have no shame for loving you. A very wise friend of mine says that love resides, eternally and after the physical closeness has ended when lovers have taken different paths. Still, there's some comfort in knowing that   universal abstract configuration of love.  I have no regrets, except about the bitter ending.

Streets remind me of you, the eternal taxi ride to Kings Cross from my flat, your hand wrapped around mine, so the fit was like a glove, a cliff walk in Zennor, down Fleet Street and the champagne bar at Kings Cross station. Waking up with the summer sun filtering through the wooden blinds and opening my eyes in softened stripy light, feeling held in your green gaze as you watched me sleeping. That softness that came over you and I when we found our safe space and  you, the man who brought me flowers and books and a kind of grace.  He lives in me.

 Time heals fresh wounds  but love, for all her thousand faces, made me stronger and able to let go.

So it's time to say good bye.
Clock that moon. Anon.

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