I'd been with her
tried to leave but never could
though she aged and
left me wanting.
We once looked straight and direct
into each other's faces
but now an occasional glance
from the side, or behind a hand or glasses.
She trailed a long and tattered scarf behind her,
picking up dust and memories
blurring the pictures knitted on it
making them hard to see
or remember.
I'd chase her out the door
if I only had the strength
and desire.
It's easier to sit in the chair,
by the window
and wait for the door to close.