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

Turned inside-out

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.