Daily it grows. A distance I cannot parse.
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You make no motion to come over. To be
beyond this divide that grows greater
by the day. Days I have not felt you -
and while generally I would care, I find this
time it is less so. That your lack of affect,
lack of all that is visceral has influenced my
own pure love. That I see now at last we exist
We are not bound by any God because you never
did believe. So when the priest took our wrists and bound them
with his high white linen, our foreheads glistening with holy water...
these acts, this ritual meant nothing to you.
I have traveled oceans to light candles. Long tall tapers like
those at Notredame, 2 euro for a flame; nothing for a prayer.
An arc glitters over Paris, all those votive prayers said and lit,
from Sacre Coeur to Saint Sulpice: how they illuminate
everything. How each prayer tells a story of want and of desire,
of desires gone unmet. We pray for guidance – to be sure-
footed on the path.
Now, as winter falls all about us, as the sky drops its grey
and white flakes, I feel nothing only the bitter raw chill of
sorrow as each partner looks away from the other, two
figures on a compass, they stand a full 180. Disparate,
despairing. I feel nothing of my grace nor any inner divinity.
They have left me, love. All I am then is yet another
woman mourning such great loss. Downstairs I hear
you gathering your keys, your coat. This time when you leave
you do not say Goodbye. The door closes.
That is that.