I'll Never Know my Loss

It seems to me in tired mid-age
it matters not what I have seen.
Through years and years, and days and days
nights dark, days long, right down to hours.
Even though I know I know,
I cannot fill this page with ink.

I miss the years we breathed in-sync,
Making sweet love in our young age.
But still I truly need to know.
The day that I made such a scene,
when I asked if it was ours
you said "into the coming days."

That answer left me in a daze;
it really put me on the brink.
"Well is it his or is it ours!
To who should you be engaged
when it is so obviously seen
that the father you do not know?"

I couldn't feel. "Say yes or no!"
I cried, and then I cried, for days
I always return to that scene
I wish to blacken it with ink
cover, blot-out, to hide the rage,
return to the love that was ours

I called, it must have rang for hours.
You said, "hello?" "I need to know."
"I'm sure, you've guessed, by this late stage.
Will you still come to her birthdays?"
I just had to simply say no,
but still my mind, that horrid scene!

A therapist needs to be seen.
"I want the lives that were once ours.
It hurts, even more when I think
of being without you. You know
that right?" I asked. "I cried for days,
be taken from me by old age."

"Old age. O.K. I'll... we'll see'y'n
a minute." Hours... then days... You crashed
I know. I ink your epitaphs.