‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
In Memoriam, Tennyson
What matters your inner thigh,
petal soft,
white as milk
now?
And your shoulders
broad enough to carry
the weight
of the world?
Who remembers
your sharp wit,
clever serpent’s
tongue?
Or every small kindness
and selfless act,
committed in
moments of madness?
Your qualities slough
away in the rain,
so much sediment
for sentiment.
Your finest moments
crumble beneath
the pressure of the hours
marked into eternities.
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