We met three times
Over fifteen years.
The disagreement paled
In light of his diagnosis.

He unexpectedly appeared
At my door, then stood in my kitchen.
He had a few serious questions
About brotherly affections,
And after spitting into my sink
(the poor man)
He wondered if I thought less of him
For not sending cards at Christmas and birthdays.
Is that what he came to say?

Next was at our last family wedding.
He was still steady on his feet.
We were five Irish lads.
The sisters said he was the handsome one.
He was.
There are six of us posing in this final shot.
He's wearing a Lucille Ball tie,
Losened around his neck,
Yet covering the gill-like scar
Running from lobe to lobe.
His hands are buried deep
In his pants' pockets.
His smile says Good-bye.

I saw him for the last time
A few weeks later,
Standing, bent and coughing
At the intersedtion of the roadway and Nature Trail.
His rib cage raging from contortions.
He waved off an offered ride.
And then he was gone.
It took us years to get here.

Did you ever think he hadn’t tried,
To see the world through your weary eyes?
He thought of you in every breath he took,
But now it seems you never cared to look.

It wasn’t beauty alone that made him stay,
But the way your flaws lit up the day.
He saw the cracks, the scars, the pain,
And loved you through the storm and rain.

He couldn't give roses or petals in bloom,
But he offered his heart to light up the gloom.
A token here, a gesture there—
His love was wrapped in ways unfair.

But maybe now, that feels too small,
As if his efforts were nothing at all.
The gifts he gave, the time he spent,
Seem lost in a sea of discontent.

You were the world, the stars, the sky,
Yet somehow, he failed in your eyes.
He wonders if you’ll ever see,
How much you truly meant to be.

For now, it feels like his love was missed,
Like all he gave was easily dismissed.
But deep inside, he knows it’s true—
He cherished every part of you.

He gave her everything, or so it seemed,
Love poured out like rivers in the quiet stream.
But now she only recalls the storms, the rain,
As if all he ever brought was pain.

He wonders if she sees the man he became,
Or if she’s blinded by the ghosts of blame.
Mistakes, he admits, he made his share,
Yet he changed, but she acts like he’s still there.

She tells the world of her heart’s disdain,
Of memories that still cause her pain.
But what of the moments he held her close,
Of the love that endured when she needed it most?

She paints him in shades of darkness and strife,
As if he never added light to her life.
All the wrongs she remembers, clear and stark,
But what of the times he mended her heart?

He forgave the wounds she left behind,
The scars she carved, the battles unkind.
But now she turns, with anger so deep,
And casts him away, into shadows she keeps.

Perhaps it’s easier for her to forget,
The love, the kindness, the times they met.
For all that remains in her mind’s twisted maze,
Is the version of him that she couldn’t erase.

We stood once, hand in hand,
against the world and its cruel demands.
We whispered vows, beneath the sky—
no storm would break us, no tear could pry.

We promised to fight, to always hold on,
yet now, it seems, that bond is gone.
You remembered the hurts, the weight of the past,
and forgiveness you spoke of was never to last.

But what of the love I gave in return?
The trust I rebuilt when it wasn’t my turn.
I held your flaws, your every mistake,
because for you, my heart would break and remake.

Do we have to say goodbye to dreams we once knew?
To a future we built, where love carried us through?
I loved you deeply, beyond every scar,
but now, you choose to drift afar.

Was it all for nothing, this love we embraced?
Do promises fade, like tears left erased?
Maybe goodbye is what you need to move on,
but a part of me wonders where we went wrong.

So, I stand here, torn and confused,
clutching a love that I never abused.
Perhaps the answer is letting you go,
but this heart—it's too slow to know.

let's look back and reminisce
those days
when you were once mine
let nostalgia swallow us whole
until we fill the voids in our hearts
with regrets of what we could've been
and content of what we are now
—g. l

Memories are what we would call
the ephemeral hues
on the canvas of time,

the intricate outlines
of painstaking work
seeming a blur from the distance;

all blending into the faded echoes
of our past regrets.