I stumble on his shoes on the way to bed
I pull back the covers and steal his pillow for my head
I look and see his clothes ready for his drawers
Clothes folded and curated for the life he adored
His picture, his book, his glasses on the bedside
No longer needed now that he has died.
Trappings of a life well lived
But now like water through a sieve
Run away never to return
Only memories in my heart; burned
These empty trapping and ghostly thoughts
These pain-filled breaths and meaningless droughts
Holding countless momentos only to me
As to others, only junk they’ll see
So into the boxes and baskets they’ll go
Trappings of a life well lived but gone tomorrow.