Sometimes I try to remember
what her body felt like lying
next to me in bed, or how
her voice sounded when we
were alone and she spoke softly.
I try to remember what she looked
like when she was happy,
and the smells that came from the kitchen.
You’d think these memories
would come easily—
just take them down from the
shelf like old familiar, loved books,
and browse through them with a smile,
but they’re lost now and I cannot
find them. I’ve searched everywhere
but they have simply vanished,
and I am left trying to imagine
what she was like in that
time before the sky fell upon us.