You live only in memory now.
All that made up your presence
is gone, and what is left is
the sound of you,
the little things
you loved and touched
as artefacts of a tender life lived.
A photo, a time caught in memory.
They linger still,
still in what remains:
places, rooms-ghosts of another
time when your hair was not grey.
Alone now with just these things
that turn to dust,
alone with you,