1985-2015

I'm going through my Polaroid memories,
sorting through snapshots and old feelings.

I was 12 when I told your father I would marry you.
I always wondered if you'd ever notice me.

I thought about you so much last year;
thought about how I'd like to talk to you again,
bring up old times and start new friendships.

There are no second chances with the scythe.
I watch the reels of tape spinning,
this is such a final, bitter, end.

Isn't it funny? I told your father I would marry you,
and Wednesday I'll watch you return to the earth.

These memories I have are too few, too little,
to make up a proper farewell.