Thursday, February 07, 2013



And so it has been my struggle fitting into the new, my older form.

And so it has been my struggle letting go of the old, her youthful form.

And so I had thought it was I, holding onto her, grasping her suppleness.

And so I discovered it was she, holding onto me, pulling me into her past.

She, not ready to let go

of me, her dreams, her hopes, her expectations . . . her time.

It was not I, after all, not my grasp.

My hands fell open, ready.

And with that, I kissed her tears of morality and unrealized potential,

leaving them moist, on my lips, to dry into goodbye -

a farewell kiss.

And I gathered the dolls and ballet slippers, the concert stubs and uncapped lip-gloss, the fading Polaroids of lost loves and lost dance contests.

And I held them and her close to my breast, my beating heart,

And I inhaled her last breath into my next.

And I emerged.