Fragments of Cassandra

I have had enough.

Not of loving you—
that affliction has rooted too deeply to be torn from the marrow—

but of standing at the threshold of a door that has forgotten me.

How long can a cathedral keep its candles lit for a congregation that never comes?

How long must the tide offer itself to a moon that does not look down?

I have had enough.

Your smile—
God,
your smile.

It was the only sunrise my winter ever believed.

Your mind made the heavens feel unfinished,
as though the world had been waiting for someone to ask better questions.

And your touch...
Your touch could persuade the frost to leave my bones.

Tell me—
what grave could ever be so kind as to bury such a thing?

There will never be another.
Not because the earth could not fashion one—
but because I refuse to spend another lifetime
wandering its cemeteries,
mistaking strangers for your resurrection.

No.
I will not become that ghost.
I will not spend my remaining years
holding borrowed smiles to the light,
asking,

"Is this the one?"

I sat beside you.
While the world kept turning,
I chose you
again,
again,
again.

And still,
your hands remained open for another horizon.

So let this be my final liturgy.

I am done.

Done mistaking silence for promise.
Done mistaking patience for providence.
Done mistaking devotion for destiny.

You will miss me.
Not all at once.
No—

the way old houses miss their music.
The way winter misses birds.
The way a book remembers the page that was never written.

And I—
I shall miss you until air forgets how to find my lungs.

But I will not write.
I will not call.
I will not stand one hour longer
beneath the bell that never rang for me.

I have had enough.
And this,
my love,

shall be the last beautiful thing
I bury.


Be'ahava,
The Mourning Bird