Time, the punisher of spirits,
has left me these reminders that
just a year ago, you sat at this table.
Scenes I relive
over and over,
smearing them
like these dingy pewter utensils,
for what is real is always imperfect.
What is important in life is simple,
in the end:
and at the end,
you knew that I loved you, and
I knew that you loved me,
in the midst of your pain and my heartache.
Time, the enforcer of mortality,
has left me these reminders:
and I will one day leave them
as well
