Eighty Years Old

Your thoughts, your feelings—your experiences

have resonated with me

have plucked a string of memory

and resounded a simple twang

a familiar, wistful pitch.

I remember the furtive act

moving into the warm

embrace of man—a man who lets me in,

a man I let inside of me—to the dark places,

washing over me, unexpectedly.

I am not all-knowing, but I do know this:

You are good. And you will be good.

You will rest softly in banks of glittery snow,

like an angel,

and the steady wind will cover your misery.

When you rise up to greet the morning,

the air that you feel on your tongue

becomes our air, whispering.

Your air is the same air as mine.

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