DO THEY KNOW I LOVED THEM?
They move on, wither, die: my loved ones. (Sometimes they skip to the dying part, no moving on.) What can I do? I move on.
So do I treat them tenderly while we’re together? No: I’m tetchy, obtuse, sometimes sneaky. I reassure them, falsely; I make promises I can’t keep. Just when things are going well, I die and, without warning, become someone else.
How can I say I love them?
Even as someone else, I’m me, and I remember.
How can you say I don’t?
You’re not me. You’ll never know.
Did they know? That, alas, I’ll never know.










