I moved like a bird on a wire-
unsteady,trembling,
too high to rest,too low to fly.

There were nights
when the silence pressed in so tightly
I mistook it for peace.

I spoke when I should have listened,
reached when I should have let go.
What I gave was flawed,
and what I withheld-
worse.

I wanted to be good.
Or if not good,
at least honest.
But even truth came tangled,
wrapped in need,
in fear.

I tried.
In my way.
And often that way
was broken.

If you carry any wound I left behind,
know this-
I carry it too.
Heavier,
each time I remember your face
and the things I never said
because I couldn't find the right shape
for sorrow.

I only wanted to be free-
but I mistook freedom
for the absence of love.
And I have never been lonelier.