Will you mourn me when I am gone,
or will I disappear
like breath on cold glass—
there, and then not?
Will your tears envy the rain,
each drop daring to fall
when you never did,
each storm confessing
what you kept locked behind your ribs?
Will you hear my anguish at last
when thunder speaks for me,
when the sky breaks open
with the weight of all
I learned to carry quietly?
Will you see me then—
not as something to endure,
not as a feeling to survive,
but as I was:
soft, and breaking,
and still reaching for you?
And if love finally finds my name
once I am only memory,
will it be gentle—
or just too late?
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