And so, another book of memories
   leaves my life.

A book with pages golding already
   with the fog of fond reminiscence.

A book with pages torn, to avoid with a pang
   in passing, sad places to not revisit.

A few cards, a few notes, some sweet
   scrawls on the margins of scraps of paper.

Some verse to remain private forever, and
   a photograph or two.

Another book of memories
   consigned to their own quiet
   little box in the attic.

Her last words to me were
   "For now, at least."

Congealing in a lonely little
   box in the attic.

12/20/17 2:45 AM