You Made Me Better

1.

At that place where Gagarin rose from ground,
forty-two meters toward the sky,
a man of stone prepared to fly.
We stood beneath that upward flame,
young, unafraid, almost unnamed,
when you gave words to what we felt:

The soul is drawn, and friendship wakes.
The mind is drawn, respect it makes.
The body calls, desire takes flight.
And all three joined become love’s light.

At twenty, this seemed whole and true,
a perfect law for me and you,
as if the heart could be defined
by soul, by body, and by mind.

We did not know what years would prove,
or what is asked of lasting love.
For time does more than test desire,
it strips away, refines the fire.

2.

And thirty-five years down the road,
through every loss and every load,
I think one line was left unsaid,
one truth that only life could add:

What has your loving made of me?
What have I helped you learn to see?

Did I expand the world you knew?
Did you make mine more deep, more true?
Did we grow kinder, still more strong,
learn when to speak, when silence belonged?

Did we still question, still explore,
still dare to ask for something more?
Did beauty sharpen in our sight?
Did darkness teach us about light?

3.

When city neon drowned the moon,
I chose the glitter, smoke, and wine,
the easy grace of borrowed rooms.
You made me search for what was mine.

When great ships darkened every pier,
I thought departure had to roar.
You set a paper boat afloat,
and I began to trust the shore.

When footprints vanished in the snow,
I thought the road had failed us both.
You walked as if beneath the white
the earth still kept its secret oath.

I would have spent myself like fire,
all brilliance, appetite, and flame.
You showed me ash can guard a warmth
that does not need the world for name.

You never praised the obvious light.
You watched what trembled at its edge,
the empty chair, the unsung note,
the shadow leaning from the ledge.

You saw in beauty something bruised,
a blue that sorrow had made clear,
and slowly I began to hear
what silence had been saying near.

4.

Years carried cities through our hands,
books closed, friends vanished, seasons turned.
Yet some small paper boat survived
where larger vessels crashed and burned.

Now Beacon Avenue holds dusk.
The windows gather what is left.
No monument, no upward flight,
just light made tender by its depth.

And sometimes moonlight finds the glass
behind the traffic, signs, and rain.
I know it now. I do not turn.
I know the quiet from the vain.

The paper boat still takes the dark.
The buried path still knows the snow.
The ash still keeps its hidden warmth.
And now I know what we did not know.

5.

You made me better. This much is true.
And maybe, love, I did the same for you.
And when I am gone,
The leaf on our tree will be waiting for you
To write a poem better than I do.