There is no divorce. Only death. There is no disloyalty without recrimination.
My first lover would laugh. Likely he does laugh from beyond the grave. It would delight him that this is how it ends. He would note how weak and soft I had become, to give and receive this comfort, now no longer available. To have children, which in our language is synonymous with “becoming a cow.” Cow also being synonymous with “that which is eaten.”
He would look at what I have written and be angry, I think, at its mundane nature. Then he would either lock me away in disgust to consider better things. Or he would take me by my hair to the altar and show me what real pain is. Or a lesson such as Magdalena was taught when she was fucked on top of the dead dog.
It is strange to write such things so bluntly. But there it is; I have become increasingly fluent in the English of the light. He left as well, in death. He had said he would not die. But he did. Likely we will meet again, but not for long, for I have betrayed much and still do with these words.
You see it is complex, leaving. Betrayal. Belief.
It is tiring to think of such things alone. Once I reveled in the dances of our woods and the singing of our songs to each other alone. But now I am used to the soft bed and the petting.