Do, Return

I have to wonder why you keep returning.

Perhaps to see what I do with myself now.

For so long neither of us could look away

from each other. Our hands were always

near enough that if we flexed our fingers

we would be touching, or if we glanced away

the other was still in the periphery.

But all that changed when you left suddenly.

So I have to ask, why do you return?

Perhaps you regret the manner in which

you left me. What was it I had said.

That I felt like I was half dead or half alive.

Some much dramatic illusion to what was

frankly not a surprise at all. You see, I always

suspected that you would be the first to go.

I do not say that with disdain. That is just

the way it was with us. Our particular

dynamic. So I do not wonder why you left.

Only why you keep coming back.

Perhaps you want to undo the hurt.

Maybe you believe that this time around

I won't miss you as much. That I won't

call you as you walk out of my life.

A gentler letting go. A quieter farewell.

This time without histrionics, please.

I try. You talk about your various trips,

the places you visited, the people you met.

I talk about my inability to write with

your absence. I speak about my

health, in casual tone and ease. Not

forgetting how my parents think I'm

losing my mind, talking to Death every night.

I ask you how you are. And you tell me

that you miss me.

Now why would you go and

do a thing like that. For then I remember

how much I miss you. But I do not ask

why do you keep returning. Perhaps, like me,

you don't quite know how to let go.