It has been twenty-six years and only
Now does my own mind begin to chide me
For the forgetfulness. It's not lonely -
It never has been. In books I bide me
As you showed me, and in new family
Chosen with care. I think you'd like them all.
I used to dream about you, absently
Comforted at your return, your morning call
Yet not so lost when waking, you still gone,
For it seemed as though I'd met you, some way
While I slept. Now another death holds on
To dreams, to waking hours, and treats you ill.
The season's the same, and the turning year
Brings back reminders I had long left still.
Though we forget, the memories stay near.
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