Memories are all that
I have left.
Each becomes a well-worn photograph.
Missing is the warmth, the touch, the heft
Of life, the smile, the reassuring laugh.
Real people change, they grow, relate, unfold.
In time we share the adventures of their lives
As they marry, have kids, change jobs, grow old,
Loving us -- their parents, husbands, wives.
Dead people are alive in us, but they
Are not within themselves. No love revives
Your love, which I once cherished