I miss being held
especially when I cry
or have had a frustrating day.
I miss his long arms, once so
strong, and his hands, now trembling
and uncertain, clenched,
that could rub my back until
I fell asleep, content and safe.
The shape of him is still here
but the essence is fading
with each hour, each day.
When he cries
it is I who must extend my arms
like wings to comfort
and enfold him, in some semblance
of longtime love and loyalty.
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