I love you though now you’re just skin and bone to me

you’re flesh and blood too someone else I’m sure.

I picked through the debris of this and that and what I saw

was a shadow handcuffed too testimony and twenty years.

Or more and more.  A piece of grief tied to the floor, or hope, caught

in the breeze, desensitised and humanised and torn on the wind

and made into nothing more. Than a picture, lost in space,

pinned to the fridge, in an album, a journal, a draw,

of something that was, but now it is nothing more.