When I say you were too young to go
I mean the stars had not yet fallen.
I mean there were riversÂ
that had not yet carved themselves canyons.
I mean I can count the years you were here.Â
When I say you were too youngÂ
I mean there were still stories I never got to tell you.
I mean there were joints in my body then that had not yet ached.
I mean the orchid on my desk has been nothing
but a green stick for weeks but just today it bloomed.
You would care about that but you are not here to tell.
When I say you were too young I mean I was.
I mean I did not want to know that kind of quiet,Â
not yet, not sitting there in my fuzzy socks, readingÂ
a string of texts and truths I did not want to believe in.
I dreamed last week it was a lie. We went out to lunch.
You were skinny and sun brown and sat sideways in your chair.Â
I got coffee and you had salad with figs, and then I woke up.
When I say you were too young to go I mean I miss you.
I mean you were a light on this earth. I mean starlightÂ
comes across millions of light years of vacuum and silence.
I mean when things get big you measure distance in terms of time spent.
I mean the older I get the farther I get from you.
-ejl.
