Let him go, and love him as a being,
as an expression of the universe,
as nothing personal at all.
Let him go, and love him the same from afar,
in silence, as you would if you had been “chosen,”
as if you were “together.”
Because you are together —
in This; you are not separate.
Nor are you separate from Donald Trump
(my stomach fills with acid),
nor are you separate from a flower,
nor your neighbor from childhood,
nor a chirping guinea pig, nor me,
whether or not we ever meet.
This is grown-up love.
