As I do each and every morning, but not this morning,
I will not write across your obit
in the NYTimes.
I will not commit to print all those times uniquely ours.
And yet I will not turn the page,
for there is nothing
that would hold my interest
beyond what I’m reading
of your expected yet unexpected death 3000 miles away.
I’ve gone over in my head what I could remember,
but that’s something we’d be chatting up
over morning latte at the Café Flore.
There’s so much more
we’d leave for another date and soon forget and simply start all over.
We’d go on the way we’ve gone on.
All the more.
And your engaging smile and laugh brightens our day.
It’s warming hands around the mug and then across the table.
It’s the love that overwhelms.
It’s the love that speaks through quietudes and distances.