There is truth in what they say
about Time being a healer.
I resisted his attempts
at mending my heart,
wanting to feel the sharp ache,
thinking that if it became dull
I would lose the outline of your smile,
the fullness of your laugh,
the intensity of your eyes.

But he caught me sleeping at my post
and crept in with iodine and plasters.

Somehow the pain has mellowed
like a rich Merlot
and is lined with a soft sweetness —
the gentle reminder of your love,
the resounding echo of your voice:
“Courage, comrade.
Fix your gaze on the author
and run with steadfastness
the course marked out for you.”

And so I run,
encouraged by your witness,
surrounded by a great cloud.

But as I run,
I recall our synchronised gait
and I miss you
all over
again.