Where Love Heals

You called it that — our finale —
like we were a show
you’d already decided to cancel,
like I hadn’t spent months
learning the choreography
of your almost.
I drove home crying
with my hands steady on the wheel,
because I’ve gotten good
at holding the wheel steady
while everything else in me
comes apart.
That’s the skill
you taught me
without meaning to:
how to leave a room
looking whole.
This morning,
I asked you to block me
like I was asking
for a mercy,
like the cruelest thing
you could do
was let me keep
almost hearing from you.
You asked
if I was sure.
I have never been
less sure of anything
and more certain
it had to be done.
You said
you’re not acting
like I don’t exist.
But you are.
You are.
Existing to you
looks like
being invited over
and then made invisible,
looks like
I miss you
followed by
I’m worried
about backsliding,
like I’m a habit
you’re trying to quit
instead of a person
still standing
in the room.
I said okay.
I said I understand.
I have built
a whole language
out of swallowing
what I actually
wanted to say,
and I am so tired
of speaking it
fluently.
So let me
stop swallowing it.
I am furious
that it hurt
this much again.
I am ashamed
of how much
I wanted
the caving.
I loved
the way
you looked at me
last night
more than I loved
anything
that came after it.
And I don’t want
to be someone
who chooses herself
just because
there was no other choice
left to make.
I want,
for once,
to be chosen
without having
to disappear first.
Goodbye.
You let go
a long time
before I did.
I’m only saying
the words now
because you’ve already
been living them. 

Jacque Michele