Soon

Soon, we'll be gone. These letters on the page will be gone--so gone--a word: and then the words too, gone like the hand that wrote this, gone, and so the books we love too: gone--and the late afternoons and the early evenings, the golden light, the wisps of clouds, the machines humming in the evening at this moment, music that I chose to hear, as the elegant smooth word fills me with excitement, makes all this bitterness, makes all this feeling of what it is I'm now doing--so it sits and I move away from it like anyone would, I move away from it--it too will be gone. The person reading this after I am gone will be gone too, someday. If anyone sees this, what day is it? What year? How old are you? Is your heart racing? Did you know me? Did you love me? Did I love you?