Five years, seven months, and six days ago
I sat with a notebook and wrote a poem,
scrawled a scared story over lines blurred with tears.
“I’m afraid that I’m running out of time, and
I’m running out of words, and
I wonder what there will be to write down
after you are gone.”
Well, you’ve done been gone, my one and only
and I’ve grown gray without you.
After a youth of poetry, spilled ink on
any acceptable surface,
I found that I didn’t have a muse, I had a well
and it was you and you ran dry.
Time, time, time
is not on my side.
So I’m standing on a proverbial shore, or
perhaps its more of a starting line –
it’s here, and I’m going to go to that place over there now,
don’t you see? That place over there?
That’s where I’m going.
That’s over you.