For an afternoon it was easy. I sat while you
talked about loving me and I felt nothing, feeling nothing
for so long that I became extremely conscious
of the nothing, while you talked, and the nothing
felt like presence more than absence. I was filled
with awareness, like water poured in a sink. I wanted
for nothing. Then you left, politely. Other sensations
entered, which were also not feelings: a headache,
a sense of restlessness. In April I loved you so much
that I cried. I am beginning to be frightened
of my own boredom, which grows like a math problem.
I wanted to send you back to the top of the board,
to begin loving me all over again. We waited so long
to open the boxes that we forgot there were
only twenty-five days in the Advent anyway.
We took everything good that we could get,
I believe that. A lot of airplane journeys and coffee.
I always forgot our conversations as soon
as they ended, but for a while that made them
feel even more astonishing. And at first I was excited
for us to hurt one another, and afterwards you could
say the rosary into the back of my neck and cry.
I am sorry not to love you anymore. But all you‘ve lost
is the love of one person among many people: I‘ve lost
the illusion of my own loyalty, and my only religion,
which was you. I am leaving the one image of myself
I ever loved, and I will miss her more than you will.
I believed that I could be more like Jesus,
who loved everyone, by loving you, and I couldn‘t
even get that right. Everything that I did was
out of love for you, and then so was I. But I left you
the way that I found you. Who else could be so polite
about closing the door.