The Light Above

The light above shines brightly through the bare trees. Stay atop the hill, or slouch toward another living soul; but I know you, still.

The fabrications, the bravado, the narcissism, all.

The dishonest dance mocks me now.

Yet today I know
Present moment, only moment

When will I ever let go?

Don't you know?

What would I do to bring forth my own life, blessed hope, and good fortune? What could I accomplish if I could accept myself?

Where would that lead, if I could look in the mirror and see the world in my reflection? Where would I be then, if not in sorrow?

How would I leave the past behind, as you say I have not moved beyond it? How can you understand the depth of loss and loneliness if you refuse to ever look at it or recognize it in your own soul?

When would I have been enough for you to stay, if ever? When would you have told me, if not before the music played on the hill, or the birthday beckoned, or the other woman was admitted for show?

Don't you know?

Ivana, The Donald, and Heartache

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go ahead and tell me that a broken heart takes time to heal (he says the same thing). In the meantime, I'll schlump around and bemoan my fate. I'll blame his inconstancy. I'll curse his frantic need to find an idealized mate. I'll tell you how he had more problems than I had realized, though he told me as much about his history with relationships--on our second date. I'll tell you how I never felt I was good enough, and how I was so bloody grateful to have such a talented and handsome boyfriend.

Am I bitter? No, I haven't even started to go there yet. I am not the only person in the history of humankind to be told I am not The One (and that there is someone waiting in the wings who might just be). Doesn't matter: the joke is still on me.

Keep busy. Hang out with positive people. Take a trip. Lean on loyal friends. Stop remembering moments in which something else could have been said or done. Stop replaying moments from our time in Italy, however painful that was . . . the beginning of the end?

Stop wishing I could have addressed my own fears first and just left after the first three months when my inner voice screamed get out...

Did Ivana feel this way when it was over with The Donald?

To some promised land or other

Over that river on a slender thread
of hope, to neither the top
of the hill nor the comfort of
a shaded glade.

Along that road to the village of solitude
most treasured, of comfort and ease, where
I settle into yet another home, with
heart filled with hope of renewal.

Good-bye and farewell to the frantic thoughts
of loss and consequence.