You still have a moustache of chocolate foam above your lips
So we fumble a little at the door
Before I peck your cheek in a goodbye kiss.
I rush to the balcony to look at you again
You hadn’t turned to the mirror in the elevator
It’s five past nine, and you are running late.
Some mornings I wake up only for you.
Thank you for embracing me without hurting my bones. For keeping the refrigerator stocked, filled to the brim with eggs.
For letting me walk you down the altar, weak and frail.
For forgoing not one, but two childhoods, yours and Susan’s, in my care.
I know living with me and my cancer is difficult, but thank you for never complaining about this untimely guest.
I will love you in life and in death, and I will try, for as long as possible, to be your