Left
Overs.
Her
lover’s scent she kept in mind, carried
to a
place it cannot dissipate.
A
friend hauled off his anecdotes
half
recalled, to the pub to tell again.
Some,
with polite smiles, remembered his fears.
Those
days began his immortality
or the
best that can be done until
with
luck, when the anniversary arrives
he’s
stripped back beyond the bone
where
words result in tales, in love, not tears.
All
then who hold a glass will know, he’s not gone
but
taken another circle round the sun.
How
do we see him? How long will he survive?
A
firestorm, a flame, a flint. Forever.
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