The Way of Love, Like a Flame I cannot Extinguish

I saw a cardinal today, and it made me think of you.
Birds always do.

I don’t know if I will ever know
How to turn away –

Twin Flames, they say, are the absolute worst. The life lesson you’ve signed up for but will never complete, because the level of personal evolution and karmic healing required to see it through is simply, mostly, frankly, unattainable by the both of you at once. One always runs (that’s you) and one cannot help but chase (me, in all my Capricornian ways) – and the illusion of separation becomes so desperately consuming that the outcome cannot be other than fear, or meanness, or a continuation of pain.


My dreams tell a different story, see. In my dreams, I remember what it’s like to breathe you in. My heart forgets all the ways we turned away, or forgives them in earnest, immediately, like they were lifetimes ago and no longer relevant (which they were, and aren’t). Sometimes, in my dreams, I show you all the many words I wrote while I held you close from far away. Sometimes the words are yours. Always – there is so much more love than seems possible.

And I wake reaching for you.

Even still.

But. Even with my wild intuition, devotion to utter optimism, and every single message – omen – card – dream – whispered imagining that attempts to assure my heart that there is hope remaining, that impossible things will happen, that you are, in fact, still real . . . even with my heart crying out to hold on, it becomes painfully apparent that to do so is more than folly. It is insanity. It is self-inflicted torture.

It is holding on
To the rope
Of an anchor
I’ve thrown into a tornado.

But. I have promises to keep. Promises I made even before I met you, in this life, like the one about trusting my body, heart, and intuition. Promises like believing in love, in impossibilities, and in the force of my desires – trusting that some things must be felt instead of known and that if my faith is large enough to honor that trust, to feel the improbable largesse of dreams . . . they become real. Trusting that you are real – that we . . .

Why is it that the glimpses I have of you in this reality – this one you’ve chosen, without me – why is it that your face has grown so hard? Why is your expression drawn? Maybe it is my own eyes that are clouded by storms of regret; maybe I cannot see the blue in yours clearly anymore. Or maybe the clouds are yours. These are questions I do not get to ask. Not anymore.

In my attempts to reconcile what IS with what I feel, I find myself grasping. I grasp for rituals – here, to release, there, to forgive, and again, to let go. I grasp for answers, which only come in the form of promises of what we could be (but aren’t), and I grasp for outcomes that just do not appear. I felt you coming toward me, and I thought this was over, finally, this waiting – this holding space – this eternal open door of hope and love . . . but you did not come for me. Just, sort of, within proximity, and certainly not alone or with any intention of retrieving this dream.

Logic and reason say the dream is dead. Honor it and release it and move forward into something else. And I am trying, oh, believe me! Every other thing is so good. I have more faith, strength, joyfulness, love, expansion, confidence . . . so much more than I ever imagined.

I saved a chair for you at my table, until just recently. Little things like this are how I attempt to let go. I want you to have everything, you know. With or without me – I truly do. I wish that I could believe you already do have it – already are living in utter fulfillment. Maybe it would make this death more concrete, more real to me. But I cannot unknow what I feel, and your spirit cries out to me when you sleep.

Shhhh . . . just let us rest,
I beg.
Let me sleep
Without him
And be free.

But I am not. Twin Flames, they say, are the absolute worst. But this is the ascension. If ever two souls were ready to graduate in earnest from a karmic cycle of running – chasing – dying – losing – loving – creating just to watch it burn . . . we are those souls. Twin Flames, they say, are mirrors. They are our greatest lesson and opportunity, if we are lucky enough to have them. It is the Love of the Ages, the kind that inspires the world to be better, somehow. The kind that should be impossible – but if they can unite, surrender into the fire of their supernova . . . oh, the galaxies they would create.

Somehow, I still believe. I wish it wasn’t true, this Twin Flame nonsense. I wish I could be free of you. But, actually, that’s not true, either. I wish I could be free with you.

Once upon a time, a girl met a boy before they were ready. They recognized themselves in each other’s eyes, like lovers always do – but they had so much further to go before they could see it clearly. She had a life to build. She had to learn to be free. He had a life to begin. He had to learn how to love. They tried and failed, and cried and wailed, and in anger and heartbreak they turned away from each other – toward their very own work. They built their lives. They became woman and man. And always, they dreamed of the other – the mirror – the love they didn’t dare to actually hope to have. Better to leave it a dream, perhaps.


Fate wins out, they say. So one day, when it was finally their time, their eyes – hers dark, and full, like a moonlit night and his bright and blue, like the path of flight – met. And they saw lifetimes come together, and a new path laid out, and they knew what it was to love in such a way that they were free.

The way of love is not a subtle argument.
The door there is devastation.
Birds make great sky-circles of their freedom.
How do they learn it?
They fall, and falling,
They’re given wings.
– Rumi

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