Farewell to an Attachment

I don't want to write about you anymore.
My pen still circles a night span around your name, sometimes—
Fruitless scribbles.
It's almost as if a piece of you lives inside,
rendering all that could've been—if only.

You see me, now a cypsela speck on the wind's nape,
but to me, you are the stratosphere.
How will you unbecome my everything?
I'm still praying for you every night,
but I'm also praying for help to let you go—
No wonder I wince when I see your face.

I must learn the art of placid hearts
who drink their compassion deep
and spit the unsaid—the worry—the remorse—
What remains is love that liberates both you and I,
in faith that you'll be completely fine—and could even thrive
without my hovering helo of care.

There is both grief and release in admitting: We don't ~need~ each other.