Sunlight through his window pane,
simmers deep within his brain.
Fourteen years since she’s been gone,
and every second lingers on

like crosses for his soul to bear;
a cold abyss, an unblinking stare.
And all his youthful summers pass,
deeper down into his glass.

“Here’s to us”, his sad refrain,
before each drink to ease his pain.
“To when we met”, “To when we wed”,
two more shots into his head.

Times they shared together then,
mingle with what might have been.
Days remind of mem’ries made,
nightly in his dreams replayed:

“What’s become of daffodils
that once we plucked upon these hills?
Where went the pastel summer hues
and all the birds who sang in twos?
The clouds we spotted faces in,
until they trailed off whisper-thin;
The smell of raindrops in your hair,
the sounds of laughter in the air?”

“The daffodils will bloom no more,
the hills I’ve no more purpose for.
The summers, black and gray for me;
The birds have flown to Honalee.
The clouds, they gather dark as coal;
and thicken now, within my soul.
The rain shuns me for passersby,
the laughter’s turned to tears…”

“I die.”