I was begging you to leave. Every night I knelt over my bed, my hands in the position of prayer and begged whatever faceless deity might exist, to please take you from me and fly you away into the ether where I would never have to hurt you, and where you would only hurt me instead. And I’d be grateful that you hurt me. Because I’m powerless to you. I can’t hurt you, because hurting you would hurt me more than you ever could.
Last time I saw you, we lay on the grass with our faces pressed together and I saw something in you that was more than I thought possible. Last time I saw you, my heart bled and blood stained your heather-gray sweater, and I tried to wipe it off but I couldn’t, and I thought of myself like Lady Macbeth. Last time I saw you I knew I could never leave, and suddenly I realized I begged God for the wrong dream: I begged him to take you away from me because I couldn’t bare to hurt you. But suddenly I realized I didn’t want that either. I wanted you, and only you, in my life, my heart, my bed, my soul, my life, and to have anything less would wound me so terribly, it would be like every man I’ve ever loved walking out all over again. All of them with their cowardly faces marching out of the paddock out to pasture without even turning around. But not you. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.
Suddenly I feel insecure. Suddenly I feel lost. Suddenly, I feel stressed. I haven’t heard a word, and I don’t know why, and I care. Don’t leave me now. You can’t leave me now. I thought I was ready and I’m not ready.
Maybe it’s for the best.