I reached the age where time flies by

faster than a wind-blown sigh,

and as that terminus draws nigh

I've been given one more cause to cry.

It's not enough to drain the senses,

the goal, it seems, is for more offenses

to strip away any final chances

and any expectant hope for consensus.

OCD's the latest villain, inserted without care,

its mocking symptoms adding to despair,

removing any opportunity for repair.

With so little time, it's so unfair.

Obsessions occupy her every day

arranging anything every which way,

speaking in tongues with naught to say

and recalling nothing along the way.

The sheets are flattened on the bed we shared,

papers, clothing, nothing's spared,

aligned perfection and all corners squared,

with a look implicit they be unimpaired.

In the dark at night I sit alone

and from the bedroom hear her groan

as she serves her sad compulsion,

sleepless and helpless from seeds fate has sown.

I take her face in my palm

in moments of calm,

feel her heartbeat and inhale her sad sigh.

kiss her eyes, stroke her hair, while together we cry.

Just as well our time's flight is swift,

ending the misery would be a fine gift,

for her...

not

for me.