Singing still

I want to softly run my fingers
over your painted rose
remembering all of your songs
unheard but written on the clouds
that breathless ache in your light
slipping under a copper sky
hand to hour, hand to heart
I remember it all, every taste
and your golden rose, with one
perfect tear of blood-red
memory, chipped, but singing still

— From my notebook
(for a lost age)

photo credits
(where not otherwise credited)

“Living room” / photograph by Annie Spratt on Unsplash.com