sugar packs and rings

the life we lived before becomes
a distant, fading dream —
there’s coffee cups on tables and
there’s open packs of cream –

a breakfast nook inside a house,
where others dwell, instead;
it’s strewn across the table there:
the life we might have led —

that little mess of theirs is ours;
it’s in a thousand things
we left, along with all our hope,
in sugar packs
and rings

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