You and I need to have a talk.
I've always been at your beck and call.
Your lap dog.
Your chambermaid.
You've been my master.
My keeper.
My safe place to hide.
But we have to break up now.
Because I saw the sun rise today,
and through the clouds
tiny rays of light made formations
against the sky
that I had never seen before.

You've never seen this.
You don't live in sunrises.
You live in furrowed brows,
computer screens, 
aches in my body from sitting
cross-legged on my bed,
unable to move until I finish your bidding.
No, today I smelled the earth.
(why is it so prevalent early in the morning?)
The smell of something old and timeless
never felt so new.

Today I leave you for aimlessness.
For presence.
For the insane finches that vie over positions on my bird feeder.
Today I leave you with an ache in my heart -
an ache that thought I needed you to achieve,
to accomplish,
to be successful,
to be happy.

But this crisp morning has taught me 
that achievement is the grass 
growing out of the crevices of the sidewalk,
that accomplishment is the roots 
that push chunks of cement up to continue on their way.
That success is twenty birds
flying in rhythm together toward the mountain.
That happiness is being present
here to witness it all.

Oh, Should.
Some part of me will miss you.
You gave me certainty, structure.
Some sense of meaning.
We carefully danced through terrain together
in small offices with tight shoulders.
But I step away now to dance
with the unknown.