Nothing is as frustrating as doing a ritual only to be told at the end that what you did wasn't enough, that there is something undone left to be done. That happened to me about nine months ago, when I wasn't speaking to Chris.

I was getting some spillover from his activities at that point--nothing is quite as disconcerting as sitting at home one night and realizing that you're feeling very powerful arousal that doesn't belong to you. I was angry, partially because I knew he and I weren't quite done yet and partially because we'd always been pretty careful before to shield each other when we were out doing things with other people.

And I took that anger and that desperation and did a handparting ritual.

Handparting is the opposite of handfasting. It's an acknowledgement that the relationship between two people is over, and frees both to go on their separate ways. I needed to block the bond between us, to get some time and space to think.

When I was done, I knew it wasn't over. There's a certain feel when a ritual has really "taken" that I didn't get, and I received some very specific instructions about what would complete the ritual. I was able to shield against the things that were coming through to me, which I was grateful for, but the rest? Not a chance.

The catch was that the ritual had to be completed in love, not anger.

Chris and I had dinner last night. I grilled some chicken and introduced Chris to the wonder that is artichokes with lemon-mayonnaise dip. Then we hung out as the sun went down and talked about things.

The conversation turned, eventually, to us; I told him that I actually did mostly like being in a relationship with him, though at the end that wasn't enough for me. Most of my problems in the relationship were inside my own head, not with how he treated me. (Not that the problems inside my head are any less real, but they're also not exactly his fault, either.)

We talked about my problems with trust, the fact that it takes me a very long time for me to let anyone close to me. I do wall people out quite efficiently. He's one of two people in my life who's ever found the shortcut directly into my heart, through the obsidian shield that I use to keep everyone away. And part of the problem is that I don't want to trust that much, because not only it is an incredibly vulnerable place for me to be in, but it's uncomfortable for me to have people that close.

But also wonderful.

I want my emotions to be small, easily manageable, and to agree with each other; the moment I start feeling two contradictory feelings is the moment I shut my emotions down. But I also want the great sweeps of passion that break over my head and pull me downwards.

As Chris says, I want to drown.

We talked, and I cried some, saddened beyond all reason by his belief in my future that is so much stronger than my own. He thinks i'll find someone to let in again; I think I'm going to have a lot of fun but inevitably wind up alone, which doesn't bother me all that much.

And then, inevitable, what was a comforting snuggle turned into something else, the sort of thing that always happens between us--our individual hungers finding echoes and amplification in the other. We were very close, after a while, to just dragging each other off to bed. The decision was almost made; I could feel the question and the answer lingering between us. And then I felt something odd in him.

He was reaching past me for something. He was searching for something in me, some response, and he wasn't finding it.

So I stopped. Pulled away. Asked him.

What are you reaching for?

I believe that's about when the universe's two-by-four hit him. After looking stunned for a minute or two, he answered:

Nichole.

And with that one word, we both knew it was over between us.

(Nichole is a girl Chris likes a lot; he's been seriously attracted to her for a couple of years now.)

We talked about it, about how I'm not genuinely the one he wants any more. Yes, he's still attracted to me, and I was simply there and available. But I'm not the person he wants any more. We both rather wish things had turned out differently, but we'd both have to change entirely too much for us to be truly meant for each other again. And we both understand this, now.

And between us, there is no such thing as casual anything. For whatever reason, he's the only person in the world i'm possessive about. For us, it's either a full-on relationship or nothing; this is the plain fact that we've spent a while dancing around.

I rested my head on his shoulder. "We're done, aren't we?"

And then I lifted his chin. Looked into his eyes.

I release thee.

The ritual I'd started nine months ago completed. The potential I'd been keeping inside of myself translated into momentum.

And the bond between us let go.

Five silent, tearful minutes later, we were both able to speak again. But there honestly wasn't all that much left to say.

Except that, yes, we plan to always be friends.

After I took him home, I went and dug up the log I have of the day he asked me to be his girlfriend the first time.

It was May 24th, 1993.

We completed the true parting on June 26th, 2003.

Ten years, one month, and two days. That's how long it took to get from there to here.

Today, I feel like I have an emotional missing tooth--i keep poking at the places where our bond used to pull on us, feeling as if I've lost something and forgetting what, exactly, it was.

I can still feel him, the bond still exists--but it's a distant heartbeat, only letting me know that he's still alive, not carrying any other information to me. And that's the way it ought to be.

I still grieve. But we're both free, now.

Now we get to learn how to be just friends, without ulterior motives on either of our parts.

Time to figure out if these wings I've been growing work, at last.

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