Only now do I know
what a luxury it was to touch him—
before isolation became necessary.
Before the mandatory loneliness.
For months, the feeling of solitude
has been growing into need—
need as ugly as a bruise
on an arm
made by a hand that wouldn’t let go.
But finally I have known a string of days
Even though his love for me was a truth
that evolved into fiction—
even though I have held him for the last time—
He was the song I loved to sing
but his silence has stolen my voice.
So I am loosening my grasp.
I am letting him go…
Photo by Deanna Morae