Our souvenirs.
In a little box I've stowed—
a secluded veneer.
A lot of times you bestowed
The prettiest things.
A deck of just kings,
Lilac seeds.
An anklet
not a ring
with rolled paper
as beads.
A painted sycamore tree
and a carved partridge.
A butterfly, unfree
and a rusty London bridge.
Many more, I have burnt
A simple jewelry box,
a medical syringe.
A vintage, whimsical clock,
ripped pages, a stockage.
But this last one, I gave away
It wasn't mine for a keepsake.
The most special,
an epilogue; crucial—
the last smiling
photograph of us.
the last reeling
scene of us.
It was candid
it was real.
But look at what you've done.
Look at how all these objects—
merely flashes and ashes—
are perpetually gone.
Look at how you never
talked about leaving
but did anyway.