To show
our nothing.
Our silences
to sing..
Life is
so very long..
then gone
in but a blink.

It means,
so it begins,
and so it ends.
Our every story..
merely memory,
once shared,
between two
friends.

Whoever was
my chosen,
chronicler
was always me.
My every flaw,
and wickedness,
and insecurity.

I wrote it
just so that
I would
remember
never to
forget..
the moments
that once
shaped me
into who
I am.

And though
we now observe
our final glimpses
of The Sun,
before it sets..
know that The All
of it was written..
long before
we ever
met.

And though
The Poet
may have bled
The All
of love he ever
dared
to write…

Alas!
Descends
upon us..
dark and
moonless
night.