Energy shivered from the snow-kissed courtyard into the cold winter night.

One hundred of us strangers gathered around each lantern's orange light.

Your friends communing memories of you, letting the world know your obituary, by sharpie stained tissue.

Beet crumbles clinging to the hand in mine brush off familiarly between our fingers.
A sight for sore eyes evokes memories of a time where calloused hands created palettes, wroughting elements together over the canvas of faultless white platters. The pang through my soul twinges inward at the pruneyness of my nitrile stifled hands, echoing stymed passion. I envy how you still get to curate palates wholesomely from the roots.

My watch chimes over reminiscent conversation admonishing us of our obligations.

I like to think that in another stage of another life our passions will cross again.  Just as I hope it will in this one.

Light that once sifted through those four glazing bars on your old front door is now granulated
by the dust upset from my attendance.

We use to play tic-tac-toe on the image of those four muntin bars.
Our few favorite spots that we chased down the room as the sun fell behind the horizon.
Those have since been replaced by clutter
and shards of your likeness.


It embanks your house hallways
like sod in trenches.


Your house:
Is a battleground
between time
and
moth eaten artifacts that once captured your life.

Your living room:
Is a mothballed graveyard
guilty of the genocide
on the relics of your lifetime

Your wardrobe:
Is an upright coffin.
Where your decrepit outfits hang suffocated
under plastic sleeve.


I can imagine you,
submitting to the orbits of the earth.
Becoming one with this lackluster sty.
Singing your final goodbyes.