How wrong I was
for so long
to make you the center of my life—
to believe that one day
you would close the distance
that contained the reason
for your absence.
And while I was waiting
you scattered bits of your love
and roots grew elsewhere.
Now I wish
I hadn’t been so faithful
when someone who knew I loved you
wanted to take me into his arms
and his bed—
told me it was okay if I pretended
he was you.
“Melancholy” by Edgar Degas, 1874