Sirens

Love, in truth,
is rarely simple.

Sure it can survive
silence and distance.

But it can’t survive
not being forgiven.

I opened an ocean of regret
between us
and drowned myself
in sorry water.

I almost stayed,
but there were no islands
left to keep me.

That is the difficulty
in treading water-
not that the heart drifts,
but that it grows tired of
drifting.

Calypso offered no sleep
without memory.

In my heart,
I heard sirens sing,
not of pleasure,
but of relief:-

Lay down the burden of return,
you who wandered far from us.

And for a moment,
I wanted to.

To stop swimming against
the tide,
and let the waves decide
what should remain.

So I decided not to
carry anything
through the storm,
and let the gods of regret
fail.

You were the moonlight
unraveling at Penelope’s loom,
but even she
could not stitch this unravelling
back together.

I thought distance
kept separating us
as a measure of devotion,

but it carried too much salt,
wore too many disguises,
spoke with too many ghosts.

I needed to be seen
after ruin,
to stand at the threshold,
altered,
and still have someone say:-

It’s okay.
You are still here.

And maybe that is all
forgiveness ever is-
not being restored,
but being allowed
to remain.