Nothing is more or less important than this:
that first nudge we make toward the edge of the couch,
the door, the marriage, away from the old story
we can’t make fit anymore.
And then we slip into the larger mystery,
biting our nails all the while,
wondering if we’ve killed our chances for happiness,
if the people who love us most will understand the need
for this strange detour, if the answers will be any less
elusive, if the net underneath will fray and falter,
then disappear altogether,
if our hearts will suffer irreparable damage
from so much longing.
It doesn’t matter,
or it does. We will say it made all the difference,
or we will forget
it made any, because by then,
we will have already fallen.
We will have already saved ourselves.