Still, we carry it

He sat across from me with a presence that dripped with prophecy —
not by fate or romance,
but because he recalled something true.

His eyes carried the weight of ancient remembrance,
the knowing that makes a woman lean forward,
not in desire, but recognition.
He remembered her —
the Feminine. Me.

And in that remembering, I softened.
I thought, maybe this time.

Carefully, I asked,
“Do you want to feel good, or do you want to be free?”

And he, with all that knowing,
all that trembling clarity in his chest,
said plainly,
“I want to feel good.”

I smiled.
Tilted my head.
Laughed, even.
Because this performance is more professional than expressing pain.

But later,
I held myself as I wept.

Wept for the exhaustion of being a mirror,
for the ache of being known — then abandoned,
for how close he came
and how quickly he turned.

That’s the grief.
Not that he is my beloved —
He is not.
The grief is that he was there,
right there —
and still chose the exit.

This is what we live with:
Men who remember
but do not return.
Men who taste the Truth
and spit it out for comfort.

They leave us holding the sacred flame
alone.

Still,
we carry it.