There are prints of flowers and leaves
on a wall that has forgotten spring.
There are hands that hold
these feelings inside
of rushed 2 am confessions, that come to nothing,
and children's names that go with us
to our graves.
There is more of emptiness
than anything else.
And no matter how you place your hands,
or how tightly your fingers
curl around the flesh of your stomach
there will always be this distance.
In it, we will place the things
that have fallen out of our reach.
Your stories of 1939, that were never true
even if they made us smile.
Crisp white table cloths and wine red napkins.
Conversations under shadowed wisps of strings that
pull,
over the clink of near-empty glasses of chardonnay.
No,
we will forget.
We will forget what it felt like
to hold summer in our bellies.
And we will be empty
inside.