Love letter # 31

When first I loved you, it was not you. It was the ideal. The one you could never be.

Later, tarnished, I tried to force you into shape. Until I woke up. At which point you were saying goodbye.

Now, divorced of need, I call out the tyranny of fantasy. I say to the dream: you shall not enslave me. Nor shall you fasten your yoke to another.

Too late, I know, for sorry. But not for thank you. Your refusal lit the path; and in this light I now proceed. Should ever I love again, it will be for real.