“…I no longer love her, true, but how I loved her
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear…

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and forgetting is so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
My soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me
And this may be the last poem I write for her.”
Pablo Neruda

Except it’s never the last pain, is it? Every time I think I am beyond your reach, I find in my heart eddies which sweep me under. You think that since it’s me who did the leaving it’s you who bears the wound? By clinging to what you wanted me to be you left me, the real and living me, dozens of times before I ever got up the guts to call it for what it was. And that’s what hurts the worst, the lingering guilt that I could have fixed everything if I hadn’t walked away. The way you clawed at me even as you knew I couldn’t, for my own health and sanity, come back. That lovely parting gift you planted underneath my skin, saying that I was flawed, I was incapable, that caring for my own needs was a right I did not have. And worst of all, the knowledge that I loved you enough to compromise almost every last inch of what I believed… and it still wasn’t enough to save you.

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