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The second stage booster exploded upon ignition. There were no survivors.

I am learning and adapting to life underwater again. Under-capitalized. Delusions of grandeur. A burning bush and angels misdirecting me. Show me the light. Show me what’s real.

It is hard to return to “I can only depend on myself in the moment.” I was hoping for an ally. I was creating the shape of the lover I wanted, so hard. All of the pieces seemed to fit.

I was making it up.

Sublimating myself has never worked in the past, and as enlightened as I pretend to feel, I am often a scared little boy. I try. I try again. I try another way. I fail.

But who am I failing when I allow my own fantasy and projection to inject a false narrative? How can I protect my own little self, while allowing someone to …

Backing up. I knew what I was jumping into. I imagined I was strong enough to be present, to work within the constraints of my training and my beliefs. I am not that strong. There are many storms that are not mine. This one is not mine.

I do not need to justify my apology or explain why an apology is the first step. I do not need to keep waiting for the apology that never comes. Somehow, I’m telling my little self this *is* your fault. It is not my fault.

I love fully. Openly. With all my tools and dreams.

I learned again that I cannot heal another person. I cannot be a catalyst. I won’t be a coach or a support system. I won’t stand in for another man’s damage. I can’t. My entire body feels the violation.

How many times do we go to the well? Trying to keep the other partner in *the boat* so that we have companionship. Even if the boat is sinking, we agree to stay in the boat. To never leave. To never disagree again, or express frustration. “Only happy things.”

“This is too hard.”

Her words not mine. Perhaps today, I heard that sentiment echoed by my inner voice. “This is not your work. This is not your hurricane.”

I sing a song of laughter and forgetting. She was the best best best, setting the mark for certain aspects of our partnership. Then, she asked me to take my things and leave. Later she said, she had packed a few things, I had forgotten to pick up. Tonight, she had the available.

I had left my overnight bag in the car and only brought my gift and a poem, written three weeks ago. Tonight was one month of Saturdays since we’ve met.

“It was nice to have had that time together.”

Yes, my mind agrees. My heart is tired. Relieved to be released from the role of whatever that was. Making it up, increasing the intensity, and setting it all on fire, even in the face of significant prior damage. Ongoing damage. Damage over 18 years. 5 months into “he left me.” I am smarter than that.

She was prettier, smarter, and more self-reliant than anyone I’d ever met. She is now sleeping in her own bed again. The haunting of her ex-husband will no longer be part of my life. As incredible as she was… Nothing is worth the constant mention of his name, stories about their vacations. Pictures of them and her two daugthers from another father. Also an asshole. I guess she’s made poor choices.

I could’ve been a better man. Maybe. Maybe there’s more to the story.

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