I found our pictures in a bottom drawer.
I lit them on the beach.
They are consumed now,
Gone the way of those flames,
Either to the upper air,
Or down to ashes.
They have become the sand,
And they’ll be trodden underfoot.
They have become the wind,
And they’ll pass you by like sea birds in the night’s dark.
I found your notes on a top shelf.
I left them there.
Now, they gather dust,
Touched only by my dead molecules,
The skin I shed without cognisance,
Read by lonely ghosts.
They will go the way of the dust,
When I vacate this place.
They will go the way of all forgotten things,
To the refuse, the landfill, the back of my memory.
They will go the way you will go.
The way of strangers passed on pavements,
The way of sea birds in the night’s dark.
They are glimpsed, felt, heard.
And then they are nothing at all.