When I wrote my list,
it was not for you, my rock,
but another with whom
I wished to write poems.
I know better than to create
a list of you.

To begin to ask the unknowns,
To even question brings tears;
mind closes.

What was supposed to be
we threw away
thinking we could get it back
just like that.

We did...
almost.

And again...
almost.

Is it because we grow old
that we feel ourselves
taking whatever we can hold?

Is it because we realize
what we've done,
and we're trying to manage
a forgiveness of sorts
to try to work it out,
make it work
however we can?

I am sorry
for pushing you away.
What I really want to do
is be with you
by the river.