Four Years in May

Four years in May, 

a little longer still if 

you believe 

in something bigger.

I can almost remember watching

you leave, the way you

could not

get into the cab fast enough. 

Later I will

remember the sorrow on your face, and 

later still,

the heavy pit

of your stomach

the shame of a secret you kept

alone, 

the way you wanted to offer things

you could not, the mirror

of all the lives you did not choose

in that house near the river. 

I will forgive you,

of course, 

because there is nothing to forgive. 

It is not my life you held in your hands that morning,

although I wish

(sometimes)

it had been.

Four years in May,

an ending that did not yet know it was an ending,

a morning which was to me just another morning

and which to you was a thousand small knives offering you so many ways to die.