In the future, my mother will ask
what became of us;
how a love like ours,
so full like swelling fruit,
ran out.
I still won't be ready to talk about you.
Even now, the words don't work out
the way they need to.
I want to tell her neither one of us
were at fault— we fought so hard.
We didn't want this to end.
It just did.
[d.l]
