I saw it coming,
I knew what it meant.
I knew the consequences,
I knew the price I would pay.
But those moments of happiness,
those moments of bliss,
to know that you can trust,
to believe that you are loved,
the feeling of being safe,
the feeling of being home
meant more to me than a future that was yet unreal,
a darkness that was still a nightmare.
I was strong, I could do this.
My memories would be my strength.
But I was wrong, I misjudged.
That little voice at the back of my head,
the guilt that would hold me back,
the conflict with my own self,
the belief that I was wrong to want what I wanted,
the confusion between letting go and holding on,
the insecurity of loss,
it all made me weak,
like I haven't been before.
I wanted to fight back for myself,
I could not find the strength
and who would I fight?
He was a mere spectator,
watching from the sidelines.
There wasn't anything he could do.
He had told me how it was,
he'd showed me both sides of the coin.
He'd told me he would leave.
What he didn't say is that he would forget, but did he?
His pain would have relieved me,
to know that I didn't go through it alone,
that he felt some of what I went through
would have validated my decision,
that I did what I did for the right person.
The hurt probably blinded me,
I forgot that I am not the only one who would live on memories,
he went through a storm as well.
But he knew that he would be ashore
while I still needed a boat.
He is sorry, I believe him.
I would forgive him one day, I'm sure.
I am sorry too.
But how would I ever forgive myself?
The memories do not help.
They are just not enough.
The storm has subsided,
the ocean is calm.
The wind is now a breeze,
there isn't a choice.