Sad Love at Fifty

William Lowe

Why does it seem fitting

that you sealed the song

in time on the fifteenth,

the day after Valentine’s Day,

when winter’s chill deepens

despite the promise of spring

and the words whispered

in a lover’s warm ear echo

with the nuance of loss?

What moves me most

is the frailty of the voice,

the way silence hides beneath

each wistful note, sounds

that rise and begin to die

at the same moment, the way

you hold that second “stay”

right to the brink of stillness,

doomed but unwilling to let go.

Today, I listened to your song

over and over and never

grew weary nor pictured you dead.

Instead, I closed my eyes

and saw you perched in the window

of an Amsterdam hotel, singing.