an elegiac poem
The books you love
are scattered on the floor
like tiles
you left the window open
and the wind will remind me
of the world outside
our cookies are uneaten;
your meal has turned cold
our room is empty,
my heart is full
your clothes are gone,
my memories are stored
every night in a dream
I see your face
in dim light
while I push through
you step back,
like my life that I
try to rewind
no photograph will do -
your favourite slippers
our furniture
means nothing
compared to your body,
your eyes, and your voice -
a gentle whisper
I hear sometimes.
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