I think it's in looking back and truly feeling separated that I can really know I've moved on: to a new emotional state, a new attitude, a new stage... It's in looking at what I wrote before and remembering, "Oh, that's right, I felt this way. Funny. Things have sure changed. I remember now how it was." It's strange to reread the outpourings of my heart and find that they don't immediately touch me anymore, find I have to look hard, to peel back some layers, brush aside the present.
For instance, I wrote the following poem a couple months ago, and I thought I would feel like that for a long time. But at this point, it feels like a stranger's words:
I write you these love-poems,
secrets of my heart squeezed out onto paper,
like the juice crushed from apples in a cider press:
sweet and strong on the tongue,
murky in the glass.
When the poem is over,
droplets of yearning still cling to me,
like droplets of juice around my mouth,
waiting for a swipe of the tongue.
But my heart is lighter now,
free to absorb other emotions:
the nectar of friendship,
the mead of wondering who? what?
the mysterious cocktail of having choices.
In the poems, I say I miss you,
and I suppose I do. But I don't want you back.
I am savoring the exquisite flavor of longing,
gulping draughts of freedom
like cool water after a long race.