On Giving Thanks.

I went away, I promised I would not return until other words were finished, other pages closed, but I cannot. I forget how it's done, but I know something is missing; the days pass without processing, without ink, I am lost. I forget how this is done, forgive me. How have you been? I missed you.

At dinner, last night, the abundance of food, we move but carry our ways with us, I was glad for the company. Last year how overwhelmed with gratitude, with the impossibility of such a reality. I made no list this year. So much for which to be grateful, and yet. Last year, I loved New York and that was all that mattered. I thought we were made for each other. I thought that was all that mattered.

Eight years pass so quickly, but how painfully, how slowly they end. I don't want to leave this apartment, she said. This is my home. Eight years pass; they can only end in heartache.

I thought we were made for each other.
I thought that was all that mattered.
Now I don't know who I am, without you.