"It hurts here," I say, pressing my hand to my chest.
"It's your heart. It is hurt, but it will heal. Believe me, it will heal."
Still, I will not forget you. You touched my heart, which I then gave to you. I've cared for you. You've been my friend. I am broken because I have not said a good goodbye.
I do not see much light ahead, but then, strangely, I think of God. I don't often think of Him but in instances of grief and madness and pain we seek for divine help, because our human fellows just cannot suffice. I feel I need a prayer, to watch over me in the sudden vast and empty place.
He was a good boy, but my daddy is a better man.
He was just a boy, not grown up or ready. I was in it, but he was out.
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day.
Accept the flusterof lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother's watch.
And look! my last, ornext-to-last, of three beloved houses went.The art of losing isn't hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones.
And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gestureI love)
I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.