Death has aged us, Martha.

They’ll be re-casting the actors, I’ve heard:

They say they want it to be faithful,

“True to life,” they say.

 

Each day I find another thing I’ve lost, Martha,

Pairs I assumed were whole since one was there,

and visible,

but now, 

unpacking at the new place we cannot

Find the original, only the friend we bought it.

 

Today’s a quiet pain,

Like that slow-burning wood they make

That keeps its shape a while in the fire place and then is

ashes all at once.

 

Martha, you never warned me love would have a cost!

Although, of course, we both already knew.