Remember Her
She walks the streets at twenty-five,
with hollow eyes that never age.
She asks again, then asks once more:
“Do you have some change?”
Fifteen, and holding all I had—
a few small coins I could not spend.
Police laughed as she went still.
Why did I give it in the end?
I wish that I could hold her close
and tell her she is not alone;
be strong enough to not let go—
could I have been her home?
Why can I not be more for her?
Why can I not undo the pain?
Why do I keep her in my heart
and lose her every day again?
But now I know her need for sleep:
why love could never reach my soul.
I saw in her my first safe home,
and needed her to make me whole.