passing period

"Maybe 'forever' was a word meant for memories and not people."

-- Anonymous

What will I be when you leave?

My hands were made to fit in yours,

But they do the task of cleaning and dusting just fine,

Tidying up an empty kitchen.

Stale, but not sterile.

Like blueberry muffins were baked here,

Christmas cookies, birthday cakes.

Now it smells like old parchment paper and cold morning sunlight.

Memories play like a sad montage,

A kaleidoscope of blurry euphoria,

Brown eyes crinkled in laughter,

Hair tossed in autumn wind,

Gentle arms.

My bedsheets are gentle, 

Soothing on my skin,

But they don't have the same warmth.

I bought them with you.

My feet were made to walk with yours,

But apparently, they do the task of moving on just fine.

What am I after you left?

Still whole, still me,

But sorely wanting.