she was older than i
and it was long ago that we loved. news
of her peaceful death unlocked a room
and in the room was a bed
and in the bed were our younger selves
enjoying each other as if there
were no tomorrows.
i can’t look at them
but i can hear them in their in-betweens,
with hearing so acute
i can hear fingers stroking hair,
fingertips sliding down sweat-sheened flanks.
.
so many tomorrows later
i don’t have tears
and the grief is a soft whisper
of acknowledgment.
.
leaving the room
i wonder about new loves, if any
with an odd optimism
but also the pang
that comes with the knowledge
that with my passing
passion ends.
One with Clay, Image and Text 