3.18.24

How much I wanted to give this back to myself. All this time, waiting to be addressed, waiting behind the closet door. I saved myself for you, all the wanting and unforgiven grace. In choosing life, you knew so much had to die. To get to living, you would walk through the fields of dying. You chose poetry and you chose love after love that was not wrong but also not right. All that time, waking up in another stranger's bed. How you tried to give yourself the mystery of not knowing. 

"How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;..." 

(William Butler Yeats)