Wishing Well

He wanted the moon.
He wanted the stars.
He wanted romance,
adventure,
bliss.

I only wanted him.

He wanted a friend.
He wanted a fan.
He wanted a companion,
arms to encircle,
a hand to hold.

I only wanted him.

He wanted the brightest.
He wanted the loveliest.
He wanted the best,
the utmost,
perfection.

I only wanted him.

He wanted to talk,
wanted me to sit down.
And there,
with wind and trees gathered 'round,
he told me he wanted
much more than I was,
more than I am,
or ever could be.

I wanted his time,
he wanted his space.
I wanted him to care,
he wanted a prettier face.
I wanted him to hold me,
he was ready to let go.
I wasn't ready to lose him,
I loved him so much.

He would never know.

He wanted to be happy.
He wanted to be "free"
(And by free, he meant
free from me--
as if I'd taken him captive

and held him a slave!)

He wanted his life
to be the perfect novel.
And he wanted to write the book.
A book
with no me
on its pages.

He got what he wanted.
My wishes are still in the Well.