I have made a mess of it. I have thrown it away. Hurled it really, right out the window. 

I have made of a go of it. I sat my heart down and said ‘you may or may not be ready but you are going there.’ And I did it. I went.

I have made a chore of it. The day in and day out of it is slow and steady and lead me no where except I learned I can make a home anywhere. I can find home And create new rhythms and try new things even though at one time, I felt I never was going to come up for air.

I have made a love of it. I have longed for kissing you. I have stayed far longer than I should have because the corners of your smile always pinned downwards like you had a secret. You wanted to be happy, I wanted to give it to you. But it didn’t work. And in the meantime I became bleached like a beach shell and rolled out to deep sea with the tide.

I have done my best with it. I have not always been good or smart. I have argued with you too much. I have grasped and clawed. But I have tried so hard to love you in whispers. In the tiny ways you let me and accept hardly anything in return. And call myself sacrificed at the alter of love. And call myself martyr.

I am sad. That I will not see you dancing around the kitchen or hear you giggling from the other room. Smell the laundry, warm and fresh, mixed together and bonded like we were suppose to be. But we weren’t. And no matter how much you danced you hardly ever danced with me. And no matter how often you giggled it was hardly with me in mind. We bonded like two forced together edges. You thought I would save you. And I thought you would love me. 

We were both wrong.