It Doesn't End With Death

It’s been two and twenty years since you were here.
I’ve talked 'bout you a few times with close friends.
I’ve never written about you, the loss too great – you too dear.

Your death sent me into a spiral of chaos.
I died with you for a while.
No words can describe the depth of my loss.

And so many years after your death, there are times I think,
“I need to call him. He’d want to know this.”
We’re still that connected, love builds a strong link.

I’m not saying we would have stayed together, and grown old.
I’m not saying I always made you happy.
Loving you at times was a very heavy load.

You knew me. The knowing made me dread.
You cared for me. I let you.
You hurt me. I ran to you, even as I bled.

You called me your darling, your baby girl.
My skin would shiver at your words.
For I never knew when your rage would unfurl.


I loved you. Your dying turned me to steel.
I feared you. No need for that now.
There are so many other things I still do feel.

At times, for you, I still grieve.
So now, finally I write for you.
It’s not goodbye, just a partial reprieve.