There was no single moment of goodbye
Just a tapdance of last times
Each blissfully, beautifully unaware
That they were the last of their kind.
I did not want you to end in pain
But that is cancer
And endings do not rhyme.
They are balancing acts
Between consciousness and analgesia
Stutters in metre
And broken poesy.
There is no paeon I can write to you
That tempers the edges of absence.
My dreams stage reenactments of last times,
Which now proclaim their own demise
And know by heart the epilogue.
We keep forging clockwise
Further away from what you knew.
The lines of your life have fallen out of verse
Your marks grown sparse
And the balance now shifts
Between holding close
And letting go.
I do not know
How the strange, metaphysical anatomy of things
Allows for you to cease.
But – I come to realise –
Parsing the universe between old and new
There is an alchemy of being that I bear forward
Disordered, but still perhaps true.
In the margins
Between the lines
There are alloys of you.