The corners of the envelope, containing the war-torn pages
of your whispered love story are
singed,
like the house we once shared.
Entombed in ash and
memories:
the creak of the stair,
the murmurs of the portraits,
the pewter chandelier that
hung, hung high from the ceiling,
witnessing our days and the balmy evenings.
The windows were left open, as a
haven
for the moths, their winged bodies floating through the air
like your scent: dark and
musky,
with the sting of a life, hard and incredulous,
but, still, accompanied
by the sweet pang of affection.

Both have long since passed.
And now, as I cup the rose petals that are to be strewn across your grave,
I cannot help but smile.