That huge longing

That huge longing, you speak of, is my life. It started as a tiny ache when I placed my heart in his hands and said, " Here, take it." Failing to mention that it needed care, more like an orchid than a muscle. Failed to mention that without the proper care it would begin to droop. He was reckless and selfish and forgot about my heart, until he was in danger of losing his own. But by then it was too late. The tiny ache was replaced by a small blank square of muslin waiting for possibility.

I am still his wife. Still a wife. Still. Mainly still. In the past three years, my life has dwindled. Reduced to nothingness. My body is waning. And it is not only physical, of course. I used to think that my life was a series of poems strung together. But the poems are now Memento Mori. And they are not mine. Where are my poems? How can I find them? It's not in a conversation about the Euro that I will find them. Angela Merkel holds no dreams for me. Oil spills have more poetry. There are patterns and textures. They hold water and oil, never meant to mix. It reminds me of my marriage. I can only lament, not harangue. It is tragic in both cases.  And yet. And yet. Instead of falling into self-loathing, instead of falling, I stand up. I stand up straight and look around me. I see a middle-aged woman who feels like a neophyte in life. Feeling the need to start over. I don't know myself. I know myself too well. I despise myself for my failures. I love myself for my failures. I am not good enough. I am not good. I am not enough. I am not.  All has turned into, "I am." Dwelling in possibilities with a hope to have something to hold on to. Like that pole in the subway I used to ride. I am holding on for the life I am headed to. I am.