My life has a way of measuring
itself through experiences.
Seconds and minutes--what of those?
Too constructed; too formal;
I measure the minutes by the length of a laugh;
the year by what grade I was in.
Seconds by thoughts and soft footsteps;
and the hour by everything else.
So when I realized today that it had been
a year and three months since your departure,
my soul dropped cold. I know that time
well. I'm the master of that particular one.
For both of my relationships have fallen
short of reaching that destination.
Still, that time marks quite a span
for me. And I can't imagine
that it has been so long.
I had almost gotten over it throughout the day,
but as I was driving home at night,
it struck me. The difference. The horrid truth:
that my failed relationships had a set time span
but that you--yours will never end.
It will always be, "This is how long
that he has been gone." You will not return.
I'll never be able to measure something
by the length of time that you were gone.