It is hard to unravel pains like these
and the divides multiply into abyss
– no longer do I set your fire abliss.

Is this a pain of purpose or the triviality
of this is yours and mine?
You can keep the picks if you leave me Hendrix.

…or will I be forever
doomed or destined to remember
numbers, times, annuals
slip through my fingers
as 6s and 39s,
and 3 and a halves,
and 23 when you left
and two times a broken heart.

Things of meaning discarded
only with more mean-ing
on its way.

I’m tightly bound
searching the lost and found.

Do you still hear
me call for you?

But I won’t be 50 with you
not 80 in a rocking chair.

You can keep the CDs, it’s only fair…
but the 100s of books
will replace your looks
as I count the minutes
now hours, now days, now years
– too many to account.