recovery

You'll come over and talk to me,
when you get tired of conversation with the rehab man.
He'll tell you to leave me alone.
He'll tell you I don't wish to be bothered.
He'll say I chose to sit here-
at this table,
in this chair,
with my back to you-
for a reason.
He's right.
I did.

I had resigned myself-
however long ago-
to staying away from this place when I knew you'd be here.
I had told myself that this was a place
I couldn't visit once the sun went down.
But I grew tired of spending my evenings
at home
trying to entertain myself
living vicariously through those who spend their nights here
like I used to.

And, once I realized that you were no longer forefront in my mind-
every day - you - my waking thought-
you - the blurry idea as I drifted off each night.
When my thoughts were elsewhere-
on someone else-
and the memory,
the longing,
the happy grief-
and I was past you and your words
your stare
your desperation that made it hard for me to breathe
and speak-
when you were out of my daily mind
no longer with your hands,
innocent in name only-
wrapped around my neck,
I could allow myself to sit-
at this table,
in this chair,
with my back to you-
for a reason.

Now,
however much later,
I can sit at my old spot
with a book
and a pen
and a thought-
a thought I've not had for some time-
of how I don't hate you
because you aren't cruel.
And I know, as I sit here
at this table,
in this chair
with my back to you
for a reason
that you are watching me-
waiting for an excuse to walk past-
make accidental eye contact.

The rehab man tells you I'd rather not be disturbed.
You should listen to the rehab man,
he knows what he's talking about.
You know that.
But you won't-
you don't listen.
You beg for how it used to be-
and I sit here and wonder
how long I will have to stay away this time.

You beg.

You are such a woman.