Those same rooms. But quiet like a piano shining, deserted by the playful hands.
Those same intimate things. But empty as the air around the place where you should be.
That same sound of my steps. And the light above your pillow that a naked arm would turn off last before we’d let us slip into forgetting, beloved, beloved, do you remember?
That same wind through the branches by your window, that same heavy scent of flowers from the brambles by our door. That same stone step by our door, that same stone by our feet. A stone by your feet.
But not the same at all.

July, 2010