A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Almost two years since the first time 
you let me down, colder than this antique
sand-stone sanctuary warmed only by the crush
of uniformed bodies, and the paradox of masculinity
standing rigidly to attention yet unable to speak
for tears that flow freely as the rain outside.
Again I scan the sea of faces for his — not that I want
to see him, but that I wish to avoid him.  Unsuccessful.
He finds me as the hearse departs, 
but this time I notice my heart beat remains steady
as, for the first time since I made him leave me, 
I speak to him without the threat of rising panic.
(I’d rather not.)
Last time, I sat in my car and wept, an overflow
of overwhelm and sorrow and fear. Today,
I engage in therapeutic book shopping
and reward my own odyssey with fictional translation.
And on the drive home, I belt a ballad
so the tears that fall are hers not mine, and like last time
she needs to be held.  She needs to believe
she is safe — just once she needs to be soft,
to put down the yoke of care and responsibility.
Time may be healing, but it is also hardening, 
so this time no one lets me down, because 
I do not ask anyone for love.