She said
I spoke to you…while
ailing and delirious, and I remember
what I was saying,
but can’t recall hearing
the sound of your voice, nor feeling
an air of your presence – at all, at
the time, except
for a part
of an unfinished sentence, on
an obscure page of a much-unused diary,
where you wrote
that the discovery
of your life
had been
that you were wrong…
and I wanted
to finish the sentence
in writing: you
were loved…you are remembered…
yet all my demons held me there
as I kept murmuring in hopeless delirium…
as if to answer
an expected question:
“yes I am a part of you”
“yes I am a part of you”
“yes I am a part of you”
“yes I am a part of you”
