The last thing C and I say to each other before I leave is not a word I use: Namasté. It's Sanskrit, a one-word that is many words: "The light in me honors the light in you." I usually associate it with white women who practice yoga as an advanced stretching class with some pseudo spirituality thrown in. It fits better in her mouth. It seems appropriate, having burned sage and candles, exchanged written and spoken goodbyes. I won't be coming back.
I walk away, heart swollen with growth. That's what breaking up can be, sometimes. You leave having loved, and some of the love that remains stitches itself to your heart, makes it bigger, capable of more than it ever held before. But my body knows how badly new grafts can hurt, and hearts are no exception. The pain sits between heart and gut - between love and instinct. And this time, my instinct wins. Go. Leave.
Given time, my body will accommodate this bigger heart, this unexpected, unasked-for growth. In the meantime, it hurts, an wound that can't be soothed or touched. I curl around it protectively at night, waiting for the morning I will wake to find it beating in sync with the rest of me, waiting for new love to pump.
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