Where you first slipped

You left a clue that I might find

Don't deny it, I remember,

The scrape of your fingernails

I'd know the indent they made

I used to clip them myself.

The path was steep, I understand

Looking over the tread marks

How easy it is to slide. I am sliding

Though, where you moved slowly, I have

No time to trace the patterns you made

Dying against the light. They said I'd live

But I knew from the first trace

Of your footsteps that I was following

In death, as I never did in life your

Quiet meaning. I am a hoary old man

Darling, eighty-two to your sixty-nine

And I frighten them with how swiftly

I descend and swoop. Don't scold.

You had your moments,

I smell the whoosh of your skin

Where it burned against a fast curve.

The bottom doesn't frighten, for the edges

Have your prints. And it stands to reason

That you who chose needles,

Or rather were chosen by them

Yet left your clutch on every turn

Will be waiting for me, who chooses only

To trip and fall, again and again

Until I get it right

And hold your sweet smelling

Hair once again in my hands.