Who knows why we didn’t keep up?
If I don’t, we won’t know now…
No time to catch all the years
That empty like coins slipping from a pocket
I look at the face of who you became
And I almost don’t see the young man in you.
You became sensible.
A wife, two daughters proud,
Humoring you with the affection
Of those who get the last word,
Reducing you to just a few lines –
The Tolstoy novel that you were
Cut down to a gentle quirk or two,
Without the darkness that made your moments
Of light more searing, more difficult to hold
Onto, knowing they could not last.
I will not let that be
The all of you.
Let these be the last words
That remain of you
Written outside the lines
Falling short maybe, certainly,
But trying as you tried
To be more than was expected
Before the night stole you away.