And the day finally comes, as you knew it would:
Not a day for turkey or balloons,
but when you realise with quiet relief
that at last you are beyond hurting.
The careless sneer, the small barb,
that endless repetition has made large,
suddenly mean zilch. It's like
losing your faith. The taste is sweet and sour.
Energised, you throw off grief, and celebrate
this novel shift of power.
Those words of love, doled out on birthdays or
when sentimentally drunk, were just
another way to say I want.
You see it clear. It takes
a day or two for her
to realise there's nothing she can do.
And when the war is over, and
the bag is packed, you see
with pitiless eye, her separate misery.