If it had any other color, its color would be gold.
Cracked and twisted
Walnut-wood sliced and sanded smooth above,
Curved and twisted into four legs beneath, visible only to those who look.

If it had any other smell, its smell would be honey-sweet and thick.
Its smell would halt and command: twisting and piercing through their noses.

If it had any other touch, its touch would be paper brushed by fingertips.
Its touch would invite their caress: requiring their memory of its smooth rough.

If it had a taste, its taste would be coffee strong enough to be wise.
Its taste would grin: salivating, sour citrus and sweet sugar.

If it could ask for anything, it could think only to ask
For more time; for more room to love;
For more time to cry over the love it gave;
For more time to cry over the love it was given and heard given to the rest;
For more time to wish for more time.

But there is no more to give,
And there will never be.
They’ve given all they have, and all they had is all that was left.

Tomorrow will come and go,
And the next day will come and go,
And the next.

The last colors, the last smells, the last touches, the last tastes
Will have no one left to hold, no one left but each other;
They will fade, like everything has.

And the last color left will be gold.