Gypsy

He was never a gypsy.

That was the disguise I wrapped him in so I didn’t have to call him what he was.

He appeared when it suited him.

Disappeared when it didn’t.

Never stayed long enough to be known.

Never left long enough to let me be free.

Just enough to keep my heart from healing back inside my chest.

I told myself he was a free spirit, that he lived lightly.

That his absence meant he was deep, mysterious, that it was part of his intelligence.

But really, it was just avoidance.

He offered warmth without weight.

He never tried to fix me, fix us, to talk about anything difficult.

I called that understanding, acceptance, peace.

What it actually was, was refusal.

An absence of commitment, dressed up as peace.

I knew I should close the door.

I didn’t.

Hope will eat you alive if you let it.

A slow, elegant hunger dressed up as mystery.

I was being fed on.

Slowly enough not to notice.

Completely enough to disappear.

The ache I called love wasn’t beautiful.

It was consuming.

And the most violent part wasn’t that he left.

It was that he kept returning just long enough

to take

another

bite.