I brush your hair and talk of things
You still remember.
The torch that lit the songs we’d sing
Now just an ember.
I pour the tea
You study me
And wonder why
I still come by.
I dig out photos of the boys
More reminiscing.
Now in a house devoid of noise
Each night you listen.
A vigil kept
While fear has crept
Into a mind
That’s been confined.
Sinatra’s on the radio
And works his magic.
This world which you no longer know
At once, less tragic.
It was our song
You hum along
Then understand
And take my hand