The Last Light: A Study in Letting Go

There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to love someone back to life. It is a quiet, domestic tragedy played out in the space between the grocery list and the betting shop, between the hope of a “new start” and the reality of stained sheets.

For a long time, I thought that if I just provided enough softness—enough care, enough favorite meals, enough patience—the barrenness in his eyes would bloom again. I thought I could out-love the alcohol and out-wait the gambling.

But hope is not an infinite resource. It requires oxygen, and eventually, the dust and the fumes become too thick to breathe.

This poem is my goodbye. Not just to him, but to the version of myself that stayed until the light went out.

Letting Go

I saw you struggling,
so I gave you care.
I gave you kisses,
love, affection, softness.
But you are barren.
There is nothing in your eyes now
except the dull twinkle of alcohol.
Your breath could light a parade of lamps.
Your skin falls in flakes to the floor.
Sometimes I cannot tell
whether the mess comes from the pasties
or from you.
Dust lies thick upon your shelves.
I order wire for your stereo.
I buy four bottles of wine.
Later, I bring your favourite Chinese.
And I sit there beside you
while you gamble
or become hypnotised by the television,
trapped there until bedtime.
Then I lie beside you
on sheets stained with blood
weeping from eczema
made angrier by salt,
cheap food,
and alcohol.
I give you my time.
You give me empty promises.
You promise to drink less.
To stop gambling.
To change.
But by the weekend
the money is gone again.
Wine.
Vape.
Betfred.
Every week,
my hope grows dimmer.
Today,
I think it finally went out.