I won’t talk about your illness,
Or your life, certainly not your stillness.

I won’t talk about your childhood,
Or your future, not that I even could.

I won’t talk about how every April I visit your burial site,
Because I wasn’t even there to put you to bed at night.

I won’t talk about how much I miss you,
Because my undeserved tears might just break through.

I won’t talk about why I didn’t say goodbye,
It’s hard to when I didn’t even say hi,
And you were gone in the blink of an eye.

I pretend I am there now, as I read you this,
Wishing I could at least, give you a kiss.

I guess this is your eulogy, or my apology,
The one I can never give you properly.