I’ve asked your hand to stay in mine,
and you’ve obliged. But that which gives you life
attends me less with every year. Goodbye.
One final dance that never was.
A wave that never hit.
Farewells that never did begin.
All this ended long ago.
How glorious it was.
How messy and how young. How young, how young.
How long ago.
Once I grieved the loss of childhood.
Now that grief for something new: the later young is left
behind.
Less now about responsibility
than consequence. The early
old begins.
Glory to this, too.
Glory to change.
Glory to it all.
