Tealeaves and Jaffa Cakes

Cut away these pieces of me I do not need.

What use are these legs that will not take me to you.

These hands that cannot touch you.

Arms that cannot hold you.

These eyes that cannot see you.

These ears that cannot hear you.

Lips that cannot kiss you.

This heart that cannot love you.

What is left of my love but memories?

The lines of your face have blurred.

The smell of you has faded.

The feel of you has lifted.

The warmth of you has chilled.

You are gone and so am I.

My traitorous heart still beats.

My lungs draw breath.

My mind has pictures to paint. (Words to write.)

And so I must go on.

On the happiest day of my life,

A gentle hand covered my eyes

And a kind voice bade me

"Do not look"

What need to look when my hand held your blood?

All these things must come to pass. And yet, I found myself hoping they never would.

The mud and the rats and the gas and the death. The barbed wire and the bravery and the artillery and the sheer unending hopelessness. The rain and the fear and the poppies and the bombs.

It shone in her eyes like a reflection of the madness of nothingness and the fullness of time that human minds should know to cower away from in abject terror. It is too big and our minds are too small.

She spoke of anger and tears that stained dry on the pages of a book that would not be reread.

She spoke of loss and grief and tragedy that could not be averted.

She never once spoke of love.

I found that terribly sad, so pitiable, and yet I envied her of it.