A few years ago, I found this old rough draft of a poem I started after we had moved. I keep losing it and then finding it. This time, I won’t lose it, but I will revise, edit, and work on the poem. There is something to the “moving on” theme that is compelling–maybe escape is the correct term?
In any case, thanks for reading.
Note: …..many stanzas before this…won’t post here so I can publish one day… and took out middle stanzas
Memories, you said. I cannot move.
These have been
the best years of my life here.
How can you say that, I asked,
not wanting to see the paint-peeled walls
or the missing tiled floors even one more time.
They were my years with you, you said.
Today I looked for photos
I am sure I threw away in my
haste to leave and I wonder
how I could have been so cruel
how can I
live with such moving love?