For E.

Dear, though I am nearing sixty,
Though I have a cancer, I don't
Think of my mortality. I'll live
Until I die, I guess. Far more
Worrisome to me is my awareness
That the two of us are doomed to
Part, you, to stages, where you'll
Shine, and to Wyoming, so you've
Said, and marriage. I, too, have
To go; another job, another life,
The possibility of lifelong sorrow
That we had to part. Our love
Will die before I do, a love, my
Love, which I have loved, an
Image of you, standing near.
I never kissed your pretty face
Or felt the beating of your heart
Against my own. I only hoped,
But, now, such hopes are hopeless.
In a week or so, we'll say goodbye,
And I, though wounded, won't
Be dead. I may wish that I was.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 18 times
Written on 2011-12-24 at 00:53

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