Love is remembering I like red velvet cake,
And not needing an emergency brake.
Love is putting a strawberry in my champagne,
And massaging away all of my pain.
Love is cooking for me late at night,
And kissing me in candlelight.
Love is holding me when I cry,
And never asking why.
Love is accepting the lime in my cider,
And always making my smiles wider.
Love is painting my toes,
And pretending to propose.
Love is you. Love is us. Love is knowing we are enough.

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.