Untitled (For an Old Poet, I)

This was not
the June
you dreamed of;
it was not
filled
with the happiness
you sought
you deserved,
with the company
you wanted to hold.

Instead,
I carried
our grief and shame and guilt
through each weekend and evening,
mixing it in
with each paint stripe
I put upon
the bathroom walls.

I still owe you
so much
in the days
of waning light,
have so much
to hold
and cherish
and check off
our list,

Have so many seconds ahead of me
when I need to stop
and listen to someone’s song
float amongst the pine and lavender
in the night air.

And I promise you,
my dearest,
my old poet,
I am still fighting our battles,
even when the loses
feel far more weighty
than the wins.