If you gaze into the abyss for too long, the abyss also gazes into you

Loving was like freedom —
a sanctuary of the heart
where only your will held sway,
where liberty bowed to no hand but your own.

You could have flung your hands to the wind,
like leaves drifting from the autumn bough,
swaying, swirling, surrendering —
and yet, your hand was as a prisoner’s.
Even with the power to cast it free,
you would not.

Your heart was gladly captive,
though the door stood open,
inviting you to leave whenever you wished.
And your tongue — struck mute,
for the art of weaving such storms of feeling into words
belongs only to poets.
And he… was no poet.