Hemingway

He worried about her,
for she would not break,
and he knew somehow
that the world had a way
of claiming her kind
She was too good,
too gentle, too wonderful
Just couldn't last
So each small visit
he made significant
in whatever way he could
And then he'd leave
knowing he might
never see her again
The hollow would grow
and in his chest,
his heart labored and waned
And he'd whisper
comforts he ignored, and
lies disguised as assurances,
hoping selfishly that
she might break
and live forever