Was it your goodbye
to the life you had once thought
to be your ticket to freedom—
on one last ship
before the wreck
before Rome
before I
was forced to say 
my last goodbye
alone
at the stone
where they placed your severed head?

Or was that trip some celebration instead, 
a reaffirmation of the perfect ending
that had no place for me—
even after all the years
apart, you cutting off my love
to spite your heart, 
play the valiant part
after all
the believing your mind's story
of what was meant to be
and what was not.

Did you ever stop to consider
that one man's Camelot
is another woman's Hell?

In the end—what did you tell 
the writer then?

Do not worry that your scribe
in such a hurry never
delivered last letter you wrote.

I know it by heart
and have carried it through time. 
It is mine.

I hold no grudge against you.
Still I wonder,

Is it your last goodbye
to the life you had once thought
to be your ticket to freedom—
on one last ride
before what's next?
I pray for 
some different end
before I
am forced to say again
my last goodbye
alone
at the stone
that only God can roll away.

Or is your trip some celebration instead, 
a reaffirmation of the perfect ending
that has no place for me—
even after all the years
apart, you cutting off my love
to spite your heart, 
play the valiant part
after all
the believing your mind's story
of what was meant to be
and what was not.

Did you ever stop to consider
that one man's slice of heaven
is another woman's heartbreak life?