The susurration of the flowers, insects, and the breeze
reminds me of my breakfasts with you
when you visited me, taken from the city you love more
than you loved me, and this place I
built for you, this tomb where your former self sleeps
Your voice would quieten my desire for constant music
as you talked yet rarely spoke about
frivolous topics, materialistic pursuits, the absence of
nature, philosophy, politics, and love
The whispering music of your voice haunts my home
made for you and our imagined children,
which I understand you never wanted to have with me,
nor with all that came thereafter me, us
Your voice surrounds me,
the tomb of what we were
living without you, my love.
C & K 