If this is the end

If this really is the end
And you won’t be coming home,
Then all of it is yours.
The years, the friends, the tears.
I can’t quite tell if I see you in everything I made this life of,
Or if I made this life of everything I could see you in.
But the point remains:
You are the golden thread braided through it all.
Promise me to take care of it, was what once ours.
In this moment I am too raw even for my craft.
I can’t find the beautiful metaphors or the stuff of Whitman.
But even this crumpled paper trembles, and it won’t contain this monster I will become.
The air is thick with what once was,
And what has slipped through the cracks.
It’s yours, all of it.