Cruising in the cool, closed car under the just-before-midnight sky, wishing I could open your heart and read it like a book.

But life is always like this: Your fingertips meet with your lover's and you learn that silence can be heard. The barista carefully slides the coffee across the table to you with a smile to top off a good morning, but you see the dying light in her eyes. Or your feet pound on the tarmac, running a make-believe escape from yourself. So you rub the sleep from your eyes and set your dreams to sail and burn beyond the horizon.

You're ending.

Who could blame you? There were no stars that night, only a blatant satellite in the south sky. Your old friend clung to you and spoke words you could not welcome.

“Hold on, Love.”

But your hand was on the gate latch and the car keys ­jingled from your fingers. So you slipped away.

I was the one who loved you enough to let you go.