I found out later
why she cried.
All those times
her face would collapse
into something I couldn't reach —
I would hold her
and she would let me
and never say why
and I would stay anyway
because that's what you do
when you love someone.
I thought I was failing her
by not knowing what to say.
I didn't know
I was the reason.
She had written it down.
The damage she could see herself doing.
The way she had watched
the joy go out of me
and couldn't stop
and loved me enough
for that to destroy her
in ways she hid
behind closed eyes
against my chest
in the dark.
She knew.
She always knew.
And when I read it
I didn't feel vindicated.
Didn't feel the anger
I maybe had a right to feel.
Just this enormous
quiet
sadness —
for her,
for the war she was fighting
inside herself,
for the love she couldn't receive
without guilt,
for all those nights
I held her tears
not knowing
they were for me.
Grief doesn't need
a future to exist in.
You can mourn something
and wish it had been different
and hold someone
in a part of yourself
that has nothing to do
with wanting.
That's where she lives now.
Not close.
Not like before.
Just —
known.
Deeply known.
And sad for.
And wished well.
That's all.
That's enough.