They leave. You let them go. For death or fame
have called them. And you cannot hold them back.
The ache that cracks your bones is that you lack
their presence. When all partings seem the same
it means you dreamed that they'd become a part
of your flesh and your story. They have theirs
not yours - to live or die in. What repairs
the wounds you've made in your own selfish heart
is letting go. Perhaps they will return-
the famous for a visit, and the dead
in dreams, perhaps. But when all's done or said
what happens to them is not your concern.
Love chooses to let go of what we hold,
for selfish warmth. Love chooses to be cold.