Admit it- you feel like it's ending-
the thinking, the talking,
the knowing,the looking,
the living, the loving

It's ending.

You follow the everything
with the palm of your hand
transformed in the world you were
once promised.

And you only know it for an instant.
And that's all it takes, anymore.

Love, for an instant.
Think, for a moment.
Live, though it's fleeting, out loud.

It's ending.  Your true life-
the one you wanted to live-
is the victim of expectation,
of answering, of following.

It's ending.  Admit it.

They come to me
with questions, with
giggles,
with more than I realize.

I know them,  need them.
They are mine.

And they cry my name
through peals of laughter.

And they cry my name
through the shadowy hall.

And it is in the darkened-ish
hallway that I then find myself,
going to them.

And it is I, the alchemist, who turns
their tears to smiles
and eventual sleep.
And it is I who, long after they drift off to sleep,
sits and listens.  Sits and watches their chests
rise and fall, like heat.

And I close my eyes then,
only to ask myself to remember,
not to sleep.