This was once a love letter
rooted in the subtle trust
of knowing one will return
however often they leave
however long gone.
But when you finally came back
to the garden, last night,
from that distant look in your eye
I was no longer waiting
like a breakable glass
for the rugged pulse of red wine.
Nor had I gone away.
Something had happened
to my understanding of existence
that turned my heart inside out.
Was I welcoming, or being welcomed?
Leaving, or being left?
Yes, this was once a love letter
rooted in subtle trust
but now it’s an apology
to both of us
for how long it took me to let go:
Oh, midnight bursts of clarity,
like every garden I ever gazed at,
like every broken glass,
close your eyes
this, too, shall pass.