The word (a collection)

Do you remember me?

The sun is rising and the birds start singing 'do you remember me' in three-part harmony.

I listen for your voice but I can't tell if it is you, I have forgotten what you sound like.

My legs don't know what it feels like to entangle yours in mine.

My fingers have found a new renamed cat's ears to fondle. A cat that is allowed to sleep on the bed beside me.

The smell of oil paint and scented candle blown away on the wind.

The truth that you are a dwindling romantic apparatus of inspiration is dawning.

The birds are calling with the notable absence of the kookaburra.

Watercolor and pen on card, cut into strips, and then ritualistically put to flame.

Desiccated red roses enshrined in plastic receptacle with lid.

Buried in a community grave with other discarded treasure and trash.

A peg, a toothbrush, a spare key hidden under the doormat, a champagne cork.

A device now devoid of all-purpose. A stocking stuffed with coal makes a poor torch.

The rising sun sheds light. The birds are singing 'Do you remember me?'