might it be
that you hear me only
as a poorly played horn
a bothersome oboe
as you rest in the wheeled chair
with your gown of faded flowers
and a tray of uneaten food before you
I think you have left little of yourself
to control this bird’s body
its care no longer a concern
its eyes they watch something
but not this room
not this person who is me
are you privy to the divine
forsaking all else
a week ago
inches from you
I cried.
you knew
at least that.
you knew,
for there was a wistful smile
a swimming back
and now
I make my peace
because I know that you take with you
something of me
So sad and so beautiful
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I have been there. I could never put it into words. Thank you for the words I wish I had.
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