Your Way of Not Moving on

Sometimes,

I find fragments

of you buried in the habits

that haven’t let me go, wisps

of another life—

“Let’s not talk about sadness.”

—and I will try to hide

from them in waking moments

that seem like illusions.

You will always find me

somehow, years past and fighting

for happiness,

but my psyche

won’t let go of the moments

when I learned

that even your most trusted

can betray you—

“I didn’t tell you because I knew

it would hurt.”

—and our past

was as toxic as the present

and hopeless as the future,

but I clung to the picture

of us because

I thought you deserved better

than your luckless

childhood and a distant lover,

rather unloved.

Chalk it up

to anxious dependency,

a fear of being

lonely,

but I hadn’t known yet

the freedom granted by absence—

“I can’t live without you.”

—and your living

had been, from the beginning,

an obligation I carried

for no reason other than being

the sole entertainer

of your burden.

Sometimes,

you seep into my dreams

and seize me,

dragging to the depths

of our past.

And even now, loved

and loving more than ever,

I am stuck

with the guilt of leaving,

the only thing you gave me

just to give—

“You will never be happy again.”

—and like everything

you said,

it was an insecure story

chalked up to be

your way

of not moving on.