You and I talked about death over cake and hard liquor;
You’re to kill him tomorrow –
The beeping machines and IV piggybanks
attached to a name that will be too hard
to pronounce when you pull out the tubes.
He’s not yours, no, not like you are mine,
but week after week someone else captures
your heart, your sympathies, and
Week after week someone else has
to be let go; to move on, move away
and will it always be this hard
each time? You ask –
I couldn’t say –
I’m only the poet, you’ve told me,
and all I know to say is words
never get easier, names never get easier
to pronounce when they’re forgotten,
but emotions can look just as strong when
they’re staring back at you between
lines of ink on a page.
Those who understand will read this
and cry with you,
and nothing will ever get easier.