Golden light pours over
Marble faces and untouched wine glasses.
Your face
Frozen in our sepia-tinted memories
(I can't remember... are they even ours?)
Crescent smiles reassure
"It's okay"
But are gradually eclipsed
As the sincerity, the sympathy slips away,
Flickering—not quite there
But managing to avoid the quiet darkness.
They talk.
I respond.
Automated—what they want to hear.
(You wouldn't have believed me.)
Your guests,
Like silhouettes,
Shifting, sharing, hoping to cling on
Just a little bit longer.
Your bones and wrinkled skin—
Now ash.
Your voice, once a symphony
(or a cacophony... I can't recall)
Decrescendo— Silence.
(And I hate that I can't remember you.)