The wreckage of sunlight breaks through shades,
and windows that do not open.
There is the chair where you read my poetry in the evenings
and someone else’s novels on weekends.
I remember honey skin, sometimes,
dark hair with gray,
but often there is a space where a face should be
and a name that sounds like rain though it doesn’t fit the shape of my lips.
I can dream a face, voice or name,
then awaken to the dream I am living
where nothing is as it should be.
Someone comes each day and says things to help me remember.
Is it you?
I wish I could tell you it helps but that feels like something I should not say.
Emotions, they remain intact
but without a point of reference
they are confusing.
I remember love but not who or what it was for.
Anger seems to be the coherent one.
The one that finds its home in my memory,
memory and the life it has abandoned.