I knew better than to attach to you, while feeling unrealistic hope that this time could be different, because you and I had been friends, dancing to the delicate tune of quiet romance, while being aware of walls too risky to climb, if not for your circumstances, then, for mine.
I knew better than to bond with someone like you, while knowing our mirrors would show masks, faces we both wouldn’t bear, naively hoping that together we could heal the past, latch onto the other, not in a death grip, like we had with others, but in a mutual need to be connected, moving from friends to lovers.
I knew better than to speak what was on my lips, while knowing you were speaking from a place of intensity, quiet hints, slowly progressing to a fever pitch, where confusion precipitated the will to act, explore, feel, touch, kiss, consume the other.
I knew better than to hope, the morning after, that your heart would be open to possibilities, while knowing all too well how these things turn out, a test the closest friends rarely pass, my curse to bear, desire for those I trust, I should of kept that door closed, listened to my gut, instead of my craving for love with reckless abandon.
I know better than to think you’ll come back to me, while feeling distant hope that time apart will bring clarity to your part in abandonment, when I was willing to feel the agony of just friends after such a union, beautiful, not cheap, amazing like you said it was, but now you don’t trust yourself, any contact would be “fatally dangerous”, a cop-out of intrigue I won’t fall prey to.
You’re scared, I understand, I have been too, but there’s a part of me that cannot cross these rifts, where someone leaves me to bleed on my own when we used to bleed together as friends; a union destined to seek connection beyond invisible walls, now we both cower under the weight of implications, continue to live in our pain, apart, ripped from each other by our own scars.
Emily Cloward © 2018