What Cannot be Said

I want to whisper cliches
that the days are too short
and cost more than we know,
but saying so is not enough.
Still I am charged, dear friend,
by the weight that amputates
many a future rendezvous,
distance and duty draw, parse.
Time, they say, closes wounds
so even lost parts can be forgotten.
But, sudden change is a partial dying;
though you taught me how to mend
tapestries with fraying edges, now
the task is overwhelming, burdensome.
We have known each other long,
longer than evidence might propose.
You have been brother, tutor, mentor,
shown me constellations of heroes,
how to value being, the feminine,
to embrace the darker arts
without succumbing to their charms.
When you dwell in another city
and the stretched lines between us
pull or decay along digital axons,
the stories we played out together
will give life to other narratives.
Perhaps that kind of farewell falls
a hair short of hope and good fortune,
but saying and intention rarely match
so the absent mention of so much
will have to be enough, to show
that I hold dear those nameless valuables.

About thepoetsglass

Professor, poet, philosophical dilettante, plus some other impressively heady alliterations. Instructional designer and copywriter. Cognitive neuroscientist by night. Self-diagnosed coffee addict, sometime dancer, brooding bibliophile, and an always salty sailor.
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