But find a deep abyss—that chasm—in the dark of the evening?
I love living alone, doing what I want, when I want,
Yet I crave the intimacies that come with the night.
The laughter, the tears, but most of all the touching.
I even miss the arguments—at least there was someone.
They say loving with all your heart and then getting it ripped out
Can be the best thing to happen—at least you know you’re alive.
I don’t miss the compromises that weren’t really compromises
(How can they be when you just give in to let her have her way?)
And I don’t miss the sublime intent of deception, however protested it was.
There is contentment in the aloneness of it all.
Yet the smattering, while ever intermittent, moments of loneliness creep in
Like that thief in the night, shattering the illusion of perfection.
Yet still I wait.
Oh, the absoluteness of grief and pain have subsided,
And the abject anger and resentment have even begun to fade.
No snippets of visions or songs that bring about this past.
Yet it has wisely been said that those who do not remember history
Are doomed to repeat it again.
All of the reasons why there was a sharing of space to begin with.
The desires I miss are becoming supplanted by interests that occupy myself alone.
I amaze myself at what I’ve accomplished on this holy ground of solitude.
When I know that all will be right, and I discover there is nothing missing
Except from what I choose to exclude—the choice intended rather than a by-product.
Yes, this sanctity of space—this wholeness of one—is my beginning of life. ©2007