PagesPoetry — By Bonnie May on September 9, 2012 at 12:00 pm
For a while now,
it has seemed
that your leaving signified
pages being ripped
from the binding of my book.
Leaving a chunk of my chronicle
almost as if those pages never existed
as if we never lived, loved, laughed, or cried
as if our lives and our hands never intertwined
like those two ancient oaks in my grandmother’s backyard.
And maybe, that’s how it has to be for you.
Maybe that’s the way you have learned to live . . .
How the heartache and pain of your past has taught you to survive.
So, you have ripped me out of the pages of your book.
You must feel the way the binding is loose,
The way your story is incomplete . . .
but you carry on, calmly,
And though there will come a day you will miss those pages
I am glad you are happy, now . . .
missing pages and all.
As for me . . .
when you left, you did not
violently rip those pages
out of my book –
gently forced me
to start another chapter.
Thank you, for that.