Gentle surrender

From the beginning, I walked with you with my eyes open. I saw your soul, the parts with diamond-like perfection so brilliant it burned, the rotten and gnarled parts, putrid in their ugliness. And I loved you, in a way so simple that I cannot seem to make anyone else understand. I grasp for the words and they slip away. It just is. It always was.

So I stood before you, our hands twined and my face uplifted, seeing every familiar line, the smell of your soap and skin bringing me home. And you say that you loved me, that you still do, but you cannot stay. It was right, but right is not what you know. You know misery and pain, so you retreat to the darkness, always back to that blackness that brings you to your knees. I offer my wish for you: that you find your way to a place were you can love and be loved. You assure me you are not gone forever. I hope you are right, but I fear you will never escape the monster that keeps you in sadness. I fear that, no matter how much you are loved, it will never be enough. I know what awaits you in the darkness you have chosen, and it breaks my heart to know how much you will hurt, that you will be alone there.

I know I have to let you go now, but I drop my head to your chest once more, that place where I fit so perfectly beneath your chin, and sob, your arms circling around me. I wonder if I will ever belong this way again. I silently scream in protest at how wrong it is, at how unfair, that you are too broken to stay in this peaceful place we found in each other. I pray to every power in the universe that you find your way home.

Then I cut the ropes and drift on gentle surrender. I did all I could. The rest is up to you.

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