Your life lies littered around the room,
Clinging to books, scattered still as you left them,
Yellowed leaves fallling from your fingers,
Which I would touch now, but cannot,
For to do so would erase that last moment,
When you bade such a careless farewell to this world,
Clumsily marking your page by turning down the corner,
Oh! Sweet dear vandal, did I not scold you for that!
See, now I cry, thinking only how bereft those pages are,
One day I will need to clear this room,
To take your life and pack it neatly into boxes,
But right now your life is too much with me,
So I will keep vigil here, without pomp or prayers,
Until the very dregs of day are leeched from the room,
And I can leave, soft as the door sighs closed.
Clinging to books, scattered still as you left them,
Yellowed leaves fallling from your fingers,
Which I would touch now, but cannot,
For to do so would erase that last moment,
When you bade such a careless farewell to this world,
Clumsily marking your page by turning down the corner,
Oh! Sweet dear vandal, did I not scold you for that!
See, now I cry, thinking only how bereft those pages are,
One day I will need to clear this room,
To take your life and pack it neatly into boxes,
But right now your life is too much with me,
So I will keep vigil here, without pomp or prayers,
Until the very dregs of day are leeched from the room,
And I can leave, soft as the door sighs closed.
