For one moment–one brief, shining point,
as I lay in my bed–he was in my past.
A compartmentalized part of another life.
An ex, like my husband. Not The Ex.
I could look on him and analyze his actions and thoughts
–our words and feelings–without malice.
Without becoming overwhelmed with emotions, without feeling
the jaded walls rising, cutting off all hope of future successful love.
Or whatever. Love. What a terrible word.
Exactly six years after it ended, nearly to the day.
Then it was over.
They say it takes you twice as long as the relationship lasted to recover.
To move on. To start over in your life.
Six years and counting.
I hope the next Moment doesn’t take six more.
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