There is an aspect of leaving I have
Never understood. It is as though
The right time is somehow shrouded
In a mist of convention that is opaque
Only to me.

When it is too early, I hesitate, and
Become my eternally patient self,
Like going to sleep with my eyes open.

Before I know it, I have outstayed
Whatever scant welcome I had,
Only noticing too late to attempt
A graceful exit.

This is all so many people see of me:
The lonely, almost tragic figure
Who says too much or too little,
Who is frosty or too friendly, who
Disappears too early or stays too long.

“Without conflict, there is no story.”
Perhaps I need this to keep me going,
To ensure I never run out of things
To think or write about. Perhaps this is
Necessary for the essence of who I am.

The door is open: will I stay on
The safe side, or will I pass through
And become all I fear? This always happens:
Perhaps now is my chance to
Play it differently, to stand a chance of
Getting what I want without chasing it away.

Once again, my heart is a swarm of moths
Clamouring for the light of another
False moon; another earthly creation
Masquerading as a heavenly body.

To avoid becoming the me I despise,
I must back away from that inviting
Opening, before I find myself in another cycle
Of hurt and regret; I must
Learn, finally, when to leave.

08/05/2015

Posted on 08/30/2015
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