Just Kiss Me One Last Time
Sitting here in my plush little chair, In neatly polished glass, a reflection of my cold blank stare, Like that leaf I spy falling from the Sycamore tree. Is that you that I see? It matters not who it may be. Nothing matters now that you have been taken from me.
So, I may not be Robert Frost, but this little poem means a great deal to me. It is difficult
to put heartbreak into words, like trying to describe the kind of thick darkness of a room that has
no hint of light. We know there is a way to describe such things, but the mind refuses us the kind
of relief that will surely come from such an understanding of the abstract. No, I guess I am bound
to the cold hard facts of my mundane story.
Yes, that is right, I call my story mundane, irrelevant, and common because there is one thing we can all be sure of in this life, we all lose the one we love the most. The only difference is the backdrop of the story, but the result is the same. We live, we suffer, we love, we lose, and we die. This is the great shared commonality of us all, and a lesson we rarely see until the very end, when the horrible deeds are done, and there is nothing left but so many ashes of regret. But I am obviously becoming a bit morbid in my old
age.
I mean, it is the year nineteen-eighty-five, and I am sitting in my comfy little room at the Sunnyvale Pennsylvania Retirement Community. Don’t misread me here, I am not being sarcastic.
So, I may not be Robert Frost, but this little poem means a great deal to me. It is difficult
to put heartbreak into words, like trying to describe the kind of thick darkness of a room that has
no hint of light. We know there is a way to describe such things, but the mind refuses us the kind
of relief that will surely come from such an understanding of the abstract. No, I guess I am bound
to the cold hard facts of my mundane story.
Yes, that is right, I call my story mundane, irrelevant, and common because there is one thing we can all be sure of in this life, we all lose the one we love the most. The only difference is the backdrop of the story, but the result is the same. We live, we suffer, we love, we lose, and we die. This is the great shared commonality of us all, and a lesson we rarely see until the very end, when the horrible deeds are done, and there is nothing left but so many ashes of regret. But I am obviously becoming a bit morbid in my old
age.
I mean, it is the year nineteen-eighty-five, and I am sitting in my comfy little room at the Sunnyvale Pennsylvania Retirement Community. Don’t misread me here, I am not being sarcastic.
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