to my darling who feels she's not:
our separation is mere illusion.
truly, your pain strikes me as i write this;
your sensations of abandonment,
and the decisiveness they have caused,
bleed from my skin into the fibers of my clothes.
i am no longer clean.
i do not feel pure.

to my severed arm and shortened tendons:
destruction is merely another side of life.
out of disappearance comes all things-
without space, there would be nothing to contain us,
nothing to allow and enfold our beings' spirits,
and they would sputter and cease like my love's flame.
i am no longer yours.
i do not feel full.

to the farthest star that my eyes can see:
your light reaches me- i glimpse you!
in the perceived emptiness between us
there is no distance to be found;
around us exists the infinite potential for
further connection and deeper growth in closeness.
i am no longer alone.
i do not feel sorrow.

I might have gotten myself into another attraction that could never work, but at least I think I'm really done with you. Maybe circumstances and time have twisted chance out of my hands, but at least my hands don't reach for the empty air where you were anymore when I'm trapped in my own darkness. Even though my luck is crumpled this time, as it always is, at least I don't feel my lungs crumpling and collapsing into themselves the way I used to, every time I heard your name. At least.