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.