Our memories,

once so sharp and short,

now litter the landscape

with the bones of our hopes.

 

It is strange,

knowing now an end will come,

how we could live so long

as if nothing would change.

 

It was spring,

the sweet early days of June.

We did not feel the slide

to the end days of August.

 

Nights are cold now,

Days shortened to shadows.

Change has passed us,

we drift in its wake.

 

Somehow even then

we still cannot see

what went wrong,

why we are dying so soon.