The Rim Remembers
I drank from your abandoned cup—
still warm where your mouth had pressed,
the rim engraved
with your lip’s soft crest.
Rust shadows every silver spoon;
my fingers tap a quiet tune
across the table’s weary grain,
a hollow song of what remains.
In checkout lines your laughter burns—
a spark that flares, then quickly turns.
I chase its echo through the air,
but find no face, no presence there.
The clock your mother left behind
ticks uneven, out of time.
Its stutter folds the hours thin,
where silence starts and loss begins.
At dawn you were the fever’s flame,
I, tangled sheets that called your name—
still smoothing hollows where you lay,
still tracing warmth that slipped away.
Your voice persists in static waves,
near, then gone—like tide that caves.
Now absence coins my pockets deep;
its metal weight is mine to keep.
It chimes in step, a muted song,
yet carries me, though you are gone.
|