I will tell them
about you,
yes, all of them
will hear your name.
And some of them will listen,
hearts soft
and ears compassionate,
but others will drift to sleep
with your lullaby
still sitting silent on my lips.
But that will not matter, darling,
for the telling of your story
is not a ritual for them.
It is for me,
insurance against my
fear of forgetting.
Because I worry, love,
that if I ever stop
whispering your name
as my mantra,
you will cease to exist.
And darling, without you,
what is left of me?
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