There is never an ending for love
for afterward there are still words
written in smaller type, scrawled in pencil
on the backs of old receipts
a date, a place, a promise never mailed
I open the drawer of memories
and find the scent of you lingering
like incense in a ruined temple
this is my vellichor, and I ache
and I grieve, for what is already read
and for everything that cannot be reread
I turn each day over, like a page
where your absence, stains the margins
and time, does not erase the pain
I live amongst the volumes of loss
now the quiet curator of our shared mythology
and if I close my eyes, I can still hear your voice
as if you were reading it all again
for the very first time, the book of us
the brief exquisite volume, of being known
I finally close the last chapter
your name, soft as dust, upon my fingertips
slowly the light turns to gold
catching fragments of everything we were
vellichor lingers, not just sorrow
but also the sweetness, of knowing
that I was once, beautifully read
© Ann Bagnall
Annie's Poetry 