Lately I’ve been thinking, dancing around the issues,
dancing around the ethics and complications,
the logistics and stipulations
of having love while holding life enough to spare.

We pace along the dance floor,
it’s the floor of our relationship, and take serious this metaphor, this
metaphor for our relationship; this floor is our past of shattered glass and smiles.
And all the while, through sparkling rings and tapered wings,
We’re careful to avoid cracks and indentations, holes and separations, in the tile.

Because a slip on polished rosewood simile yields a whole new
type of infidelity, defined with cover ups and empty promises
one night stands and faux flirtations,
while you’re away, out on your own,
so far from home.

While throwing caution to the wind, it’s our freedom we’ve
given in, it’s our freedom we’ve allowed to wilt and spoil.
This realization made me contemplate, it really made me
meditate on our decision to give it all away.
This epiphany, if you will, it’s got me feeling ill, it’s
got me regretting not remembering that bartender’s phone number or her name.

Maybe, just perhaps, it’s me, and you’re not the one who doesn’t see
or understand my reasons or my rhythms, my explanations or
my melodies. Perhaps it truly is no fault of yours,
but my decision to be free, my terribly untimely epiphany
must not be a skeleton in my closet anymore.

So I’ll leave without a sound, at a juncture,
at a time when you’re not exactly around.
You may be rightbeside me sleeping, or in the bedroom softly weeping.
So in the middle of the night, at a time so far from right,
with giving you no reason as to why, I’ll take my leave, I shall be free,
I’ll walk out the door, and never say -