A Poem From:

Passionate Intensity


I was not done
with being your child;
I was still learning to love.
And it's all very well to say
I hold you in my heart
and that you teach me still
by memory
and by the code that forms my flesh.
But there's an emptiness
too vast for my embrace.

Sometimes, I see your spectre on the street
or seated with a cup of tea at hand
and, staggering with loss,
I move to take you in my arms,
to fit my cheek
into the hollow of your neck
and place my bulk
between the world
and your fragility.
But I cannot make you mine.
I cannot follow you
or bring you back
or, for my sins,
bestow your essence on another.

I could not have kept you,
ought not to bear the guilt
that taints my aimless grief,
do not begrudge you your release.
I let you go
and let you go
and let you go.
On my deathbed
I shall forgive you.