a hundred ways

the silvery tines of memories slowly fade

eveyday you become less clear to me

your face, the way you hold your hands

are ever more distant

the crackle of your laughter

the wrinkle on your forehead when you worry

it all becomes a blur

enmeshed together in a distant space and time

until the thought of you

is no longer the first thing in the morning
or the last before i dream