Counting

The last time he left on a plane to head back home,
I felt my heart rip from my breast and leap into the sky,
attached itself to the wing of his ride,
and to him.
My heart, grown woman as she is,
chose to love
chose to wait
chose to be patient
chose to be true.

I counted down months, then weeks, days and hours
until his return.
Now, I’m already counting hours since he’s left...
Currently, we’re at 3 hours and 39 minutes into this healing.
But unlike last time, there are no tears
no banshee screams
or death cries
because this time my mind, grown woman as she is,
is choosing to love
and choosing to let go.

This time, there is no question
no wondering
if we’ll keep talking long distance,
if he has feelings for me,
if we’ll ever see each other again...
The decision has already been made,
because he is a grown man
and told me so.

No. The answer would be no.

3 hours and 44 minutes in.
I wonder how long I’ll be counting.

“Its just a matter of acceptance,” I told him at dinner last night,
for I will never understand why.
He will not bother himself to find a reason.
“It just is what it is,” he had said, “Just what I feel.”

I’ve been here before.
Too many times, really.

But all those thens resulted in my tearing my life and body and mind apart...
Desperate to understand the illogical:

For months, almost daily conversation expressing the mutual connection neither of us had experienced in years.
The admiration for each other’s work.
The shared goals and dreams for partnership, family and life.
The intense and passionate physical connection.
The ease and openness and comfort with which we communicate.
The humor and joy abundant between us.

Active planning for travel, creative work, taking it slowly as it comes
with no pressure
or demands
or timelines to decide.
It was just open. We were exploring. We were enjoying.

“You say you’re just not feeling it?” I asked with furrowed brows, “Just not feeling what?”

“The magic isn’t there. I think you are so amazing and beautiful and sexy and talented... but I have to listen to my heart, and I don’t feel the drive to dedicate myself to you.”

Huh?

“Um, but I didn’t ask for your dedication... I didn’t ask for anything other than that we both enjoy this openness, honor this connection, savor our time together, no matter what the outcome.”

Well, this is the outcome.

I will never make sense of it.
I will go mad the longer I try to.
I have been here before, too, too many times.

3 hours and 58 minutes down.
He’s halfway home.

Acceptance is the only answer for me, now, on my own again.
The plaguing questions must be kicked to the curb by the single thought:
“You will never understand. It does not make sense. He has made his choice.”

And my choice?
To smash every clock in this empty home
and never count another second again.