Tattered photographs slip through my fingers.
and my candle,
having already burned my fingertips,
has silently expired,
leaving the moonlight to guide my eyes.
The music I hear is from your small radio,
you leave it on all night.
You explained to me once why you never turn it off.
"It leaves me too much time to think," you whispered.
What is it that's troubling you?
What are these things you think about?
I wish I was privy to your secret wonderings,
your silent hopes.
I once was.
But now there is nothing left between us but the tinny sound
of forgotten songs and memories of better days.