What Remains

Only the memory of the day remains,
Of stale bread concealed in the oven’s chains,
Regret assails me, lost ‘midst flocks forlorn,
Of bitter tears where thou didst linger, worn.

I don black, with gaze most absent and bare,
And, truthfully, I speak of the present affair,
If I say I see, ‘midst the crowd’s distant glare,
Thy solemn eyes wandering far, unaware.

The tolling hands on my bedside tick
Near lethal recipes with flaxseed thick;
How many a discourse we spoke of the void
To a crowd still deaf, yet not destroyed.

I don sorrow’s guise, if I speak thou dost fade
‘Midst a thousand mosquitoes, confetti, and shade,
And perchance thou dost read what I scribe:
If thou hadst stayed, I might still be alive.