A Final Misunderstanding

I sat confidentially, privately in the same spot where I had nourished my own arms by withholding her in them for so many nights, pondering the many paths I'd taken with her, the path that had one too many turns that had led to our demise. I retraveled the footsteps we'd taken, together and apart, the many years we'd spent in the same bed. The many smiles she'd sent me, the dinners we'd dined on, and the colloquies we'd shared. The night before she left me, I had slept so well, and when morning painted my bed, she was gone. Suddenly, at one night at moonlit season for slumber, I slept alone for the first time since her. The sheets we'd entangled ourselves up in so many nights, remained in their crisp ordnance, and slumber didn't come to me that night, or for many others. Chronologically speaking, exhaustion did subdue me, on an oft occasion, but rarely was it ever at a prime moment. I spent many nights in our bed, and very few in that bed, did I seek and successfully find rest.
The chariot that life raced on had long ago ceased carrying me, my years of this were long gone, and in so I had much time to ponder my thoughts, and dwell on the pains that haunted me, internally.
The ache that never ceased was civil, this night, and not one bit of me yearned for her more than another bit might've. I sat, my hands that were once filled with her smaller ones were clasped in themselves, withered and tired. I sat, my head retracing my steps. What was it that made her leave, that I had done. Certainly no one leaves a lover of their own accord, and we were never enlightened with visitors. There was something that remained unspoken, and in her intellect she managed to persuade me otherwise.
And as I pondered, the fire crackled, and the tips waved about, licking the brick and flinching away from it's musty taste. The way it swayed, so smoothly, brought me back to her, just like everything eventually did.
Everything brought me back to her, and nothing could ever bring her back to me.
The selfish audacity she had to have had to leave me here without a second glance just graced me with a touch of my old temper. How dare she promise me a life time, when by leaving me like this, mine seemed cut so short. It's not as if she warned me she was leaving, I suppose I was supposed to take note of her strange behavior on my own. Sneaking off in the middle of the night, while I lay peacefully in naive slumber. It happens more than we'd like to admit, with women of her stature, in all reality. I never would've guessed she'd leave me like that. Not a word, no parting kiss, no slam of our screen door as she made her way to the car, not a single inquery of advice from me. She had me fooled, this love of mine. I'd never guess that she'd lie to me the way she did.
In my frustrations, I'd clenched my hands so tightly that they began to ache, the same ache I felt inside me ribs when I found out she wasn't returning.
She never sent me anything from where she was, I have no idea where she might be now. She might've headed North, I assume that's where she went, or perhaps she's closer than that, just waiting for me to find her. That's blasphemous, I agree, but withered hearts must have hope. There's no doubt in my mind that she wouldn't have gone to the south, she was much too proper for that. She hated the very idea of it. As do we all, in some respect.
She never sent me anything, telling me she was waiting, or even if she still loved me. She never bothered to send me anything. Much too busy I suppose. Had I left her, before she left me, I'd send her anything to let her know how I felt. But I had no reason to leave! What was hers? What was going on in her tired mind that gave her reason to just go? Did she lose her love for me? Her faith in me? Did I change, or did something in her change, where she no longer was willing to keep up with the effort it took to love me, to live with me.
I was always under the influence that the man left the woman, unless the man hit her, then by all means she had every right to leave. But with her, there was no fight, there was no abuse, there was only cherishment, there was only routine, and love. The pain in her eyes was replaced by love, every time I sought it out.
And now I sit in this chair, where I held her so many times, and she drempt aloud with me, she dined with me in this room. What was it that I had done, that made her give in to that call, so easily? What went on behind those eyes I'd peered into so many times? What had I said to make her so frustrated that she couldn't even tell me she was going?
She just gave in. She gave up. Something had become too much for her, and after one more night, without one final parting kiss, she was gone.
Now, I wonder if she's waiting for me, or if in this unknown place she's found, that she's moved on. Because there is no pain, there, and if it's anything like what I'm drowning in, she'll never feel it.

And even now, everything brings me back to her, and nothing could ever bring her back to me.




This story was inspired by poetry written by Joe Trock. All my love and gratitude for his unknowingly inspirational thoughts.