His face is grey.
I see
the lack of light there.
In the space
that used to fill him up with life
there is only a hollow.
He breathes.
He eats and speaks
and he exists.
His body survives.
He persists.
But he is not there,
not in the way he used to be.
I wonder
if I am fine with that.
I wonder
if my lack of worry
makes it seem as though
I don’t care.
And in my worrying,
he slips away
and is gone beyond
where anyone can see or touch him,
beyond any place
where any words
will do good.
Before I know how to love him,
before I can let myself,
it’s over.
he is gone.
