All that’s left of him is a picture frame, once looked at over the armchair as coffee brews.
A bar of soap, bought for him in the winter as we slombered along to the dull sound of static.
His watch, worn day in and day out, as his world started and stopped with that watch.
And a small bag that held love letters before those who wrote them claimed them in the estate sale.

There they sit in the cold dark night. Lonely and forgotten. The aftermath of a war, and a fight he lost. And all I can hear in the darkness, is the slow ticking of that watch.