Needing Him

From the beginning I knew it would be harder.

Harder than anything we’d done before.

But when it came down to it, it was harder than even I’d expected.

He was mine and then slowly he wasn’t anymore.

He let his heart slip away from me to avoid all the pain.

He stopped talking to me as often.

And then when he did he was short and harsh.

But that was near the end.

In the beginning it was small things, like not telling me everything he felt.

He hid small secrets away from me, to protect the life he was building on his own.

I could sense his withdrawal.

My delicate instinct knew he wasn’t there.

And I would lay awake at night, lying on my belly,

wishing I could press my small breasts into his body, and maybe force my love back into his chest.

I longed for the way he looked deeply at me,

watching every part of me with desire and love without reason.

I was his dearest love, and then one day I wasn’t.

I missed the softness of his lips, barely brushing mine,

or the curliness of his hair between my fingers.

I missed the way he rested on me when he couldn’t pull himself up.

I needed him to need me, and he did.

But then the need was too great, 

the gap too wide,

and he let himself drift away on the oceans of tears he’d already shed and forgotten.

That ocean weighed no more than the burden on his shoulders of missing me.

But he set his burden down gently,

and left it behind.

I sagged to something —

it doesn’t even matter what —

and I felt my breath easing away from me,

like an inch worm making it’s steady retreat.

And my face drooped, too heavy to lift back up.

My shoulders dropped, too weak to support me.

I couldn’t lift anything: I had no breath to.

And I let him walk away,

because if he didn’t need me anymore than why should I need him?

I couldn’t move anyway.