We lit our lamp in the evening
the steam from the teapot blended
with the luminous suitcase on the table there
and the dark breath from the books.
As anxiety caused the light to flicker
she adjusted the cord beside
to deny the night and preserve
what we once were.
But in vain we saw the room disappear
the landscape where our souls had grown.
Still the teapot's handle shines,
the books and suitcase remain
if a bit more rugged around the edges.
Though our soul's twin flame has faded
and the walls have been torn down.
Only the light give thanks to what once was.
