I cry as I write your poem.

And it won't have rhymes,
because your life doesn't have structure anymore.

It won't have a discernible rhythm,
nor a beat.
Because you're stumbling.

And there won't be many similes or metaphors.
Because I really can't compare
brain cancer to anything.

I learned recently, in English class
(because I pay attention in school,
like you tell me to)
The concept of 'plain style', like
Bradford used.

I think I'll apply that to this:

You were my carrier.
You were my friend.
You were my teacher,
and my constant.
The love of my life.
(Who says love
has to be romantic?)
My confidant;
my advisor.
(I don't want to say
that 'you were my everything',
because that's cliché and you
taught me how to be

You were (and are), for the record.)

You were my carrier,
and now I'm worried if you
can walk.
My friend, my teacher (where's
your memory going?)
Constant(ly falling to the floor;
god you're brave.)
My love. (I'm sorry that I didn't call.)
You are my confidant (but I don't
want to heap my troubles onto you now.)
You are my advisor. (Even though
you've already told me, you forget,
and tell me again, but that's okay.)

You are my mother.

And I love you.

So I cry as I write your poem.