The tree is still there,

The person is not,

Only echoes and ghosts

Maybes and almosts.


I can hike the way we did,

Even talk about the same things

But I’d only be talking to myself.


The words are still there,

The sentences are not,

Revised and rearranged

Turned around and changed.


I can sit the way we sat

Cross-legged and content

But I’d have no one to sit across from.


The dirt is still there,

The imprints are not,

Homogenised and dematerialised

Cut apart and serialised.


I can care the way I cared,

Share the things I shared,

Bare the soul I bared,

But I’m not sure I care anymore.