It’s not the first day, but the last that’s the worst.
A day, like the rest, like all of the rest
except different. For this one is weighted
with memories I’ve carried these years of your life.
I weigh them now, clear as amber; solid as beads that click and graze
together on this necklace thread of our lives.
Measuring line and length of my love, it spools heavier than I might bear today.
Tomorrow will come; tomorrow will be great. You will arrive, and return but I –
I will be different.
I’m not mourning for you, I’m mourning for me. Like I mourned for my old life
before you were here.
You are my life. How did I not see
how much I would miss this comfortable rhythm
of you, me, days, and days.
Days which now you will spend somewhere else
while I go on, and learn to pretend I forget those times you were small, when you cried.
When you followed me inside, out.
Endless, tedious days at the park. Excuses for coffees, those cafe’s were ours but now – where would I go?
Tomorrow that life is an echo, empty of easy, unthinking purpose
like me, all of a sudden.
So it’s the end of that life. The end of the start.
The start of the middle, long may she sail.