'The Girl at the Time'

Composed in XI drafts; a recollection and revisitation. With special thanks to E.S. for unknowingly contributing the title many years ago.

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“And then came the long surrender…”
—B.H. Fairchild, Rave On

That fire that she touched within my chest
Burned away defenses, then well-seasoned fears,
And—seeking further fuel—wormed its way
To spaces in me, still, I cannot quite approach.

She was active—reaching out, retreating—
While all I knew to do or understood
Concerned a certain sort of standing still
So that my illusion of love’s parity collapsed
          And… she left me… breathless.

I had held her—Lord, a decade passed before
I saw beyond how deep and good that seemed—
As each cycle of ambivalence (her raw need
For comfort; subsequent withdrawal) drew my grip,
And hers on me, gradually, unavoidably, and only
          Tighter.

At the last, she left me for my fear
Of harming her outstripped my fear of loss.

I was not made for violence—nor overt manipulation
Of the object of my poor and desperate affection.

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More than two months, I know, since the previous post. Be assured that work is being done; one must sow the field if one would reap the harvest. Autumn now approaches and we shall see what said harvest yields; hope springs eternal even in this season. If, and only if, you are inclined, why not