Grave Letters

I used to know the structure of things:
the way of your elusive smiles,
the stones of this house,
the steady, sturdy trees -
these things I can no longer recall.
Replaced with other memories:
watching the castle collapse,
dreading your emergency,
endless and silent nights
by your bedside.

I wrote you my heart -
all the words that froze
on the edges of my lips -
things I wanted to tell you,
things you never read,
finished too late.

Maybe you still have them -
the ruined pages I left
in the dust of your grave to decay,
ink smeared into blurred abstract streaks
or blown away in stormy winds.
And now I can't remember
a single word I wrote to you -
only images that flash for a moment
and then (like you) are gone.