I’ve been thinking about hearts lately, specifically the parts of mine I seem to hold for men I used to love. I am slow with these things, slow and then slower still. Years later I can still feel the pull. I think I probably still love all the people I have ever loved. And really, I don’t even mind. It’s just the shift is hard for me, I can never quite wrap my head around how it goes from blind devotion to nothing, it seems impossible. Improper. It doesn’t do justice to what you had and yet, the living is in the loving - the change is necessary.
I’m wide open these days, no languid pain or fear or hurt, which is nice. The last man I loved is gone and I don’t mind it; he’s wonderful and still not for me. It’s easier being here, and it feels OK to think back to the pain, the moment, the release. And this Rilke.
I have felt what it is to part.
I know it still: a dark, invincible
cruel something, which reveals again
the depth of our bond, and tears it in two.
How unguarded I was as I faced it.
I felt you pulling me and letting me go,
while staying behind, merging with all women,
becoming nothing more than this:
a waving hand, no longer intended for me alone;
a waving that continues and grows indistinct.
Perhaps a blossoming plum tree
from which a bird has just taken flight.
Rainer Maria Rilke