Even after everything after me speaks,
I am breathing this into the blinds,  the chair, the stones we picked up,
so the trace of me in everything might (with the friction that grief brings to stuff) do this,

remind you not of all of me who ever trod on your heart, but of,

of the me who knew always with the ever sureness of the light of a day that we did give (knowingly so) the essence of love to each other true.
I know beyond the every daily grind of days that
(and let the artefacts of my being retain this)

of all the everythings I ever held,  or saw or knew
I love you.
Every now that is left holds this as a true to give still.
The dusty everythings I own have more ever in them than me,
But I have enough love in me for them to remind you forever after,

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