By Ashlee

Oh for love lost and hope for the memories to remain.


He keeps a photograph

In his shirt pocket

It’s dog-eared, creased

And turning sepia-tone


He tells me that he has it

So he can remember

What she looks like


She keeps a note

In her coat pocket

It’s dog-eared, smeared

With ink and tears


She tells me that she has it

So she can remember

What love felt like


He keeps a dollar bill

In his pants pocket

It’s dog-eared, soft

And worn from the wash


He tells me that he has it

So he can remember

What luck he used to have


Companion Poem: “The Loss of Love” by Countee Cullen

All through an empty place I go,
And find her not in any room;
The candles and the lamps I light
Go down before a wind of gloom.
Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,
A fit, sad place to write her name
Or draw her face the way she looked
That legendary night she came.

The old house crumbles bit by bit;
Each day I hear the ominous thud
That says another rent is there
For winds to pierce and storms to flood.

My orchards groan and sag with fruit;
Where, Indian-wise, the bees go round;
I let it rot upon the bough;
I eat what falls upon the ground.

The heavy cows go laboring
In agony with clotted teats;
My hands are slack; my blood is cold;
I marvel that my heart still beats.

I have no will to weep or sing,
No least desire to pray or curse;
The loss of love is a terrible thing;
They lie who say that death is worse.