It did not occur to me
That you might take your leave.
~
You
Not being here
Was never
A part
Of my tidy, well-made plan.
~
But time
Does weather
~Age~
All things
~
And that once tidy plan
Now lays ragged and worn.
~
The frail threads
Making up
The fabric of our love
Can no longer hold it together.
~
Nor can I.
