Ten Years an Hour

Ten years have passed
since I last saw you.

Ten years of birthdays
you never got to see.
Ten years of stories
I couldn't tell you.
Ten years of reaching
for the phone
before remembering
you won't answer.

I've grown older
without you.

I wonder if you have too.

Or maybe Heaven
doesn't count years
the way we do.

Maybe when I finally arrive,
you'll look at me
with the same eyes
you had the morning
you left.

Maybe you'll smile
and say,

“There you are.
I was wondering
when you'd come.”

And I will have to tell you
that I spent ten years
missing you.

Ten years.
3,652 days.
521 weeks.

Learning how to live
with the part of me
that went with you.

But you'll only understand
an hour.

Because while I was here
counting every year without you,

you were there
waiting for me
like I had only been gone
for a little while.

And maybe that's the mercy
of Heaven.

That no matter how long
I have to live without you,

when I finally see you again,

it will feel like
we were only apart
for an hour.