This is a poem about the end of love,
that horizon seen from the highway
but only in the rearview.
This is for the beginning, middle, and end of it,
for all the things said and never said—
the sheets we filled with hours,
and dishes heaped with hunger.
This is for surviving on a thimbleful of light,
holding it up against a darkened sky
to defend ourselves against certain lunacy.
This is for the days being numbered,
the writing on the wall, the jig being up,
and every cliché written the absence of something.
This is for the heart’s undetected murmur,
For the ache of loving what is lost,
and the longing for what might restore it.