I kept all those things we loved together.
The sharing—without you—didn’t stop.
Without you, I still remember the weather.
In the fog, we would look, and we saw other things gone,
Before we were gone.
When I was ten, and bought eggs, I didn’t let them drop.
Why should I let this fall? I don’t see you.
You don’t look at me. You don’t make a sound.
You’re gone. But wouldn’t the beginning of the world,
Which I laugh at, sometimes,
Break for a long time, if it hit the ground?
Inside the nerve-endings of my memory,
You walk out of the scene; but I want to see;
And even the painful memories, who but I,
Will keep those? And you better believe I try.
The strategy of the bed clothes, the way I sleep,
With my face pressed down on the bed,
Was how my memory almost fled.
So I walk outdoors a lot, and look way off into the blue,
And see you.
I don’t know anything. My memory doesn’t know anything.
Yet my mind is still the greatest museum in the world.
I don’t know music, but I practice it.
I practice seeing your face, every day,
And I remember your face, almost as well,
As when you came to me, that day,
And I knew what you had to tell.