this way.
You were going to Paris in April.
You planned on
seeing him, stealing hugs inside his
door, not drinking anymore.

It wasn’t supposed to be
a life sentence.
He was only four
when you found him on his bed
with his eyes rolled back in
his head. And the doctors at Children’s
said he’ll never be the same again.

It wasn’t supposed to be
an affair.
You were his patient.
But your love wasn’t patient enough to wait
the full two years without seeing one another.
And he wasn’t supposed to die from heart failure
at sixty-two. He was in better shape than
anyone you knew.