It’s funny what stays with you.
You might think it’ll be the special things
you did together or the gifts he gave
or even smallish creases around the eyes,
grown more pronounced over the years.
The truth is, though, you won’t be able
to remember his eyes at all, if they were
simply dark and powerful
or if the green light danced on them
when he smiled.
You may wish that you could still recall
the feel of his hair between your fingers,
his curls making promise rings around all
ten of them, when you both were committed
to be with each other forever.
Even the smell fades away, his special
scent: dancing with soap and cotton
as you ran to each other each evening
or took walks along the chilly dockside,
feeling his warmth, smelling his skin,
knowing that these were moments that
had no need of being remembered
because he would never go away.
And the truth is, in time, there’s much
less to remember, his coloring, perhaps,
or how you could hold entire conversations
with simply your eyes. And what it feels like
to radiate under his warmth. It just drifts away,
grain by grain. A monument eroded
by the afternoon tide.