Pages

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
     missing
          destroyed
               empty
                     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 back yard.

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,
nonchalant
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. . .
I realize,
when you left, you did not
violently rip those pages
out of my book --
but rather
gently forced me
to start another chapter.

Thank you, for that.

Shades of Gray:

I like the way I can see the places
where my fingers repeatedly hit the keys on my key board.
One swift stroke after another.
Sometimes forceful
Sometimes hesitent
Always thoughtful
A testament to the work that I've done
and yet to do.
Just a slightly different shade of gray than when
I took my computer
out of the box
over a year ago.
I've left my mark on them.
Subtle.
Seen only in certain lights
but significant.

And it makes me realize:
Even things that start out new
untouched by time
or worry
or use
or care
will end up
going throughout life
existing, primarily
in shades of gray.

Freshly painted black
or white
at the touch of life
real life
it subsits
in shades of gray.