poem –

I’m reading John Keats.
On the long drive home.
From a faraway place.
I come, closer.

The end of the last line.
On the very last page.

The Horizon in the distance.
Is a place trapped in fickle memory.

I will love you forever.
Until the very last second.
Of the very last minute.
Of the very last hour.
Of the very day last day.

Sometimes I wonder if.
We are as brave as we make ourselves believe.