taken

Sometimes I wonder about the places
where we stop breathing.
the places our eyes roll up before we
have a chance to say what it is
that is a beautiful word,
or after we say it.

Sometimes I wonder
where the rose petals go, really go
after they're strewn onto the soil
and where the sounds of elegies end
when recited with difficulty
at edges and centres of graveyards.

Where do widows keep
their memories of better days-
in studded jewelry boxes and photo
albums that fade like their memories,
as the years
drag on.