cco

He died on a Sunday.

The paper fell
from her nerveless fingers.

She hadn’t seen him in years ,
but she remembered his smile,
always kind.

Beside the fresh dug earth
she stood in black,
asked the nearest other
of his fate.

They found him,
still of heart,
laid among a thousand love poems.

‘He must have had many loves,’
she spoke in return.

Just the one.