If I forget…

 

The slow blissful days filled

With miraculous nothings

Are with you

 

The light hand reaching out

To whisk me from the dark, cold places I sometimes live in

Is your hand

 

The names, the dates, the places, the faces

And finally, fatally, 

You

 

Like my father before me

 

Please know

I am not me

And letting go

Is not treason