falling asleep last night,

trying my best not to,

savoring the last moments of the day,

i fell, instead, into a strange revery.

i composed a letter of sorts,

an apologia, really, to marketa. 

it was a farewell letter, and a sad, sorrowful one. 
i wrote (in my drowsy thoughts) of my regrets,

my myriad failings, my shortcomings,

i wrote that all the things i belived to be true

were lies, that i was not the person

i thought i was, and certainly not the person

she thought i was--i was a lesser person,

a weaker, more selfish person, who wanted

not the rich and subtle life she offered,

but something cheap and quick and easy,

that my entire being, my sense of myself, was a deceit,

that i was nothing like the person i appeared to be,

that everything she and i had was false,

that our life was stifling and insufferable,

that stability and love were killing me,

that i was ill-suited to rote and routine,

that the sameness of our days, 

the predictability of our nights, was maddening,

that her kindness was slow torture;

all the while i lay by her side—

and loved her, deeply and sincerely. 

~

the first day of winter is upon us. 
distant thoughts of spring intrude. 
what i long for is an eternity of days like this,

cold days working from home, marketa nearby, always,

sharing cups of tea, and the long,

almost infinitely long, nights . . .

i want nothing more than what i have,

and what terrifies me is that it may not last,

that something untoward is lurking . . .

and so i fell asleep, and so i woke,

and so i blame terri for showing me

a way of life, a glimpse, that was like heroin,

that calls me, that i cannot shake or ignore,
a craving so deep that the outcome feels inevitable. 

~

come spring, come the thaw

when the river flows again 

i will say goodbye