My Last Love

I hold her hand
to keep her from falling away from me.
To a place where language is meaningless,
and love is only a noun.
I embrace her as tightly as I can
with my four fingers in her palm.
She is startled and confused by me every morning.
“It’s me, Thomas, my love. I’ll make you breakfast.”
Her eyes never meet mine anymore.
Afraid of forgetting or perhaps remembering.
I am destroyed and mourn her gaze.
But I must gather up my pieces daily
for it is a privilege to hold the hand
of the last woman I will ever love.
And I will only let go
when there is no longer a touch to offer.

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