All Now is Light and Air

At one point there was no such thing as love,
much like politics’ sensible centre.

But I still hear your voice
when trees sway in the wind.

Sweeter than an Oreo,
supple as a teenager’s imaginings

of soft thighs,
or merely otherwise.

We’ve lived through the deaths
that abound throughout life.

We’ve played Scrabble game
after Scrabble game,

fingers interlocking.

I still see you finding
those words, and grinning,

outlandishly proud.

I still recall our touch.
But now much has become blank

as the diary I decided
to write last January

(long after you’d left,
shortly after we’d all gone mad),

as faded as late dusk.

Now much is gone,
whether your laugh, your voice,

your love of donuts, and
my heart writhes with ghosts,

even as the velvet sky
bleeds memory.