After the Taking of a Toast and Tea

Cockroaches scuttle across the rotting stump,
tracing out a tale from memory
of promises she buried an age ago.
Have they been released from Winter's thralldom?
Will they bloom tomorrow?

If they are destined to rest beneath white sheets;
the nightingale shall drown
in the pibroch of dispirited cats,
crawling across keys: yellowed, jarred, uneven.

These floors remember the dancing of two lovers.
A million steps I have taken since;
a million cries for each that's been missed.

There is little left for these chilled fingers -
only a phone whose silence lingers
and a girl who mourns behind spidering glass,
dangling by a thread, thin as my greying hair.

Even if flowers bloom tomorrow, I will never
see the unfurled petals nor breathe the vialed scents.
It remains a reverie;
one that can not be touched,
should not be remembered
by the quill that scratches against stained parchment.