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Personal Note:

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Poem

It's very late: the moon lies on its back in drowsiness.
But still, we sit drinking cold beers. Maybe to give

us time to save ourselves...from empty promises
we know by heart. We sit waiting for the kitchen

to warm us, you in your chair, me in mine,
as we have hundreds of times before. Our faces

could be drawn from memory. It was late:
too late to talk, too late to patch our love again.

Too late to ease the pain in my heart, the
yearning for you I already feel. Maybe 

all love is like this: maybe all good things
do finally end. Can't we save us one more

time, and then another and another? I know
it's too late. But our bed will be a cold refuge

without your warm body next to mine.
Whose hair will I rumple as you tweak

my ears good morning? Who will share my day
when I come home to emptiness? Who will rub

my back, squeeze my hand, draw me into forgiving
arms and tell me it will be OK? Who will kiss these tears
                  when love has gone?

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