One day you might not be mine
and I might not be yours.
This love may fade; the sun
drops its welcoming arms below the horizon,
bringing about the inky subsuming darkness.

These pages will not turn for you.
These hands will not curl around your own.
These fingers will not drag themselves along
You
will not lend me your thoughts if only for a minute or two
or a week or a month or a year or five.
You will not be here with me.

But when you swallow that bitter black river,
bought from the same café we first went to,
leaving its airy echo in your mouth
for minutes to come, you’ll have my memory.
And I’ll have yours.