A visitor rang at my door late one night, an old friend,
Taking his hand in mine without words we held no identity and breathed as one,
He held a bag of emptied hearts and broken spirits
His eyes held the burden of truth,
We knew, in the silent darkness, the way only hearts can, our parting that night would be short lived
A few days more my door rang again and there with his bag he slipped right in,
I heard all the words he had to say, all the truths he’d forced me to face and begged him to go
Sadly he shook his head, kissed my forehead and took residence in my bed,
I fought and persuaded, pushed , and hung my head defeated
This old friend, he told no lie,
That time for now was no friend of mine,
He never left my side in those months to come, in return I dropped my contributions into his bag,
His hand stay tightly woven in mine as my eyes witness the cancer take so much from the youthful angel, the world only briefly could know,
My friend, he saw this too, he’d wept with me weeks before, and for so many yet to come promising never to leave, at least never for long,
I collapsed into him, into his tragic security
As a loved one slipped away to death he slid into my home
His name was grief and while I live neither he nor I will be alone