You’re losing her, you know? She’s slipping right through your fingers as you watch in slow motion horror. You don’t lift your hands. You don’t open your heart. You simply let her go.
Do you recognize it is coming before the door closes for the final time? Do you? Yes. And even so, you let her go. You remember, as she cries quietly on your bed at night, the way you used to touch her. The way she responds enthusiastically and with passion, fire in her eyes and desire dripping from her lips.
Yet the distance you maintain wears on her, you see that now, and her flame becomes embers and those coals are quickly cooling without your breath to stir them up. You are the oxygen to her inferno, tinder for her fervor, she told you this once, many days ago.
But now you’re losing her. And you keep smoking that cigarette and staring.
tara caribou | ©2020
Read this and more in my poetry book, Four.