Leavings (Poetry)

All that remains of love is folded neat
inside an envelope I never sent,
my written abdication incomplete,
diluting truth with soggy sentiment.

That old, familiar word that was your name,
now fallen into permanent disuse,
hangs thin as smoke from a departed train,
sounds awkward as my ill-contrived excuse.

These relics of our romance still retain
the power to revive a vague regret,
while raking through its ashes once again,
recalling that which time should best forget

If you were here you’d say I have been fooled
and ridicule this momentary lapse,
our feast is done, all flesh and blood long-cooled,
so why pick over love’s congealing scraps?