There is an open window,
that lets a soft wind blow
into our living room,
as the morning's light shines
and brightens her face.
It’s a memory that I live in
where I hold her hand,
but she looks away.
I am not so much dismissed,
as I am unnoticed.
I know this wasn’t
where she longed to be.
She once promised
that she really loved me,
but behind her hazel eyes
was an unconscious lie.
I could never be that guy.
So kind and brilliant,
she tried but there was a
fully planted field of distance
between us.
He was always nearby,
in the ether where I
could feel his presence,
the lingering essence
of her lost lover.
I still loved her,
and as we aged
there were so many days,
of grace she gifted me.
Her art and spirit lifted me,
but I could see her longing
for the corpse
of the man she divorced.
Time moved on,
a sweet series of sunsets
and days that dawned
with irregular moments
of smoldering passions,
extraordinary stories,
and worlds of wonder
sketched then demolished.
Wrinkles and gray came,
with arthritis and back pain,
as Alzheimer’s gradually
claimed her brain.
I was slowly following.
My grief growing,
knowing what was coming.
I read her stories,
held her closely,
gently wiped away
the filth of each day,
and helped her into bed.
Then on the day
before she went,
she looked right at me
and only saw him.
She fell asleep whispering his name,
and never woke up again.
