Ruin.

There was a desperation 
In our willingness to cling.
We tread slowly for months, clutching hands —
Our fingers clumsily intertwined.
As if the intent of destiny were there.
It made it difficult to depart 
And to move,

As we found ourselves adrift 
Inept to keep from drowning.
I couldn’t see it then. 
The necessity. The requisite longing 
For lonesomeness. 
To see our scaffolding crumble.
I loved the most in our ruin.
Letting go meant finding slack
In the looseness of our own arms.
Finding a freedom in that space.
Or at least, I did. I don’t know 
If you drowned. 

You told me once you liked 
That I didn’t need you. It was a lie. 
The horizon at hand now is as dark 
As the sojourn into solitude is cavernous. 
I hadn’t thought it possible.

To love myself alone again.
To know the reason for being
Wasn’t shared. 
That it didn’t have to be. 
That I could be as I was born.
As I played and learned and lived.

Just me — able to cross the thresholds
Of other people’s lives but unrequited
From staying fixed.
From staying trapped. 
From having to define those borders.
And never caring 
If I keep them open to you.