We watch death all the time,
the leaves shudder and fall
and no one makes a fuss
except to stomp in the crunch of it all
and take photos of their breath.
It’s because death does not offend us
by what is gone.
It’s the future he mourns,
what seemed so sure,
all those memories that haven’t happened yet,
stolen in front of his face,
her touch taken right out
of his open hand.