The Fold

And when he returns to the fold, you have lost him. Just when you are energized and ready to go again, you realise that none of this is on your terms. It’s on his, and that any understanding that you may have shared, was fleeting. He was never yours to lose, and you wonder for the thousandth time that night, how you could have willingly devoted yourself to this neverending seesaw of ambiguity.

But he comes to you, broken. He comes to you with tears threatening to break through their stoic threshold. He looks at you, ashen-faced and defensive, wincing like a wounded animal that needs your love but is too afraid to do anything other than wrap its protective instincts around itself.

You sigh, you begin the dance, and you extend – reaching higher and further than certainly you had ever intended to, and gradually he lets you in – knowing the end of his sabbatical is nigh.

He promises to let go faster next time
He promises to let you in
He promises that all he needs is right here in this space

Renewed, you find reserves that you never knew you had, and then he is gone.

It’s okay – you think.  This time, there were victories. This time – he understood.
He returns to the fold, and you cannot shake your thoughts, and yet, you must.

So you drink deeply, and begin again.