I don’t think you’ll cry one tear,
if one day you hear
that I’m n longer here
to tell you stories anymore.
You’ll remember the bad times,
the poems with bad lines,
perhaps some of the signs
I’d not be around for much more.
But I hope one day
you’ll suddenly stop and say,
“He loved me in his own way,
no less, no more.”
And maybe then you’ll see,
just how important you were to me,
and I was to who you thought yourself to be
before we closed that door.
So when you finally find out,
and get what these words were about–
whispers of wishes I’d never shout–
never wishing to make your heart sore.
I hope you’ll remember one time,
an hour, minute, or moment, where I’m
more than a storyteller in bad rhyme.
Then hold it, fold it,
keep it like the gold it
was we shared but never told it
to one another. Then I’ll rest
Sunday morning reverie in the half-light, half-sleep, halfness of my life I exhale like dandelion fluff to rest with you. If only for that moment so fleeting.