A million little goodbyes
each one slicing
through me -
emptiness with a
serrated edge
A million moments of finality -
terminating your cell phone,
clearing out your bedroom,
donating your clothes -
forcing me to
relinquish the futures
I assumed we would share
Death happens once.
The goodbyes happen
over and over
in ordinary moments -
today
a colleague asked me
how many kids I have
They don't ask permission -
indifferent to where I stand
or who is watching
A million little goodbyes
but never a final one
I'm not finished being your dad
I'm not finished loving you
I'm not finished...
The world keeps
drawing blood with moments
that insist you're gone
The blade tears
again
and again
and again
never reaching
the final cut
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