Time Forgets

Sun and moon run around
the mulberry bush.
Nature stirs and breathes, though
you've long since passed.
I sleep walk and talk. My feet mark time
to a drum less beat. I amble backward,
too afraid to move on, to take another breath.
I want to gaze back and rest my sight upon
the deep grooves around your eyes and mouth like
dry creek beds. I'm afraid that if
I turn around you'll slip away with the tide
and my memory of you will be lost at sea;
tossed around like Tuesday laundry.

Each day I forget you a little more.
Forget about every Sunday brunch,
the crackle and hiss of a suckling pig's fat
renewed into soap, and golfing in the rain.
One day I'll forget entirely
and I'll have lost twice.