The going away
Wrinkles tell the story
folds of skin, fall in waves
hang like a noose
slack, around his neck
Veins, no longer throb
pencilled blue lines in
the damp warmth
of his lingering hand
He held on, till the last tick
till early morning clouds, paled
his last goodbye, and love for me
was the stroke of a finger in my palm
Death took him, while I was away
asleep in a day, when the night
before, had been far too long
He needed his solitude to leave
How men hurt, with their going away
and never coming back
last whimpers, when I am not there
to hold, and just be
A life alone now, but with no regrets
my last sad song, a silent tear
for the one who went away
did not die, yet is not here.
Sally James
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