Just us,
those last moments,
(not that we
expected them to be).
Those final words,
mundane,
with Ok
and See you
tomorrow then
or some such like.
Then the departure;
no last embrace,
no hint of final going
into the far off sunset.
Just us, my son,
those last words.
I cannot recall
your first words spoken
nor now your last
with any precision.
Your death was not
my idea or decision,
nor yours to decide
or to know it seems.
Surreal maybe
as in half sleeps
or waking dreams.
I talk to you still
even though you've gone
to other realms
beyond my sense so far.
Sometimes I sense you
passing out of my eye's
corner view
like some shooting
(did I see that?)
star.
A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.