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It’s not the fact that now you walk
with someone else. Nor yet
that when you kiss
the pain and pleasure
etched upon your face
ripples through the space-time of my love.

It’s not the fact that memories of love
grow cold. Nor yet
that when I think
the image of your face
slowly decays
and carbon-14 dates the time
when you and I –

The prehistory of my heart leaves no trace.
It’s only when I wake
and find her here
cradled in my arms
I know the thing:

a white dwarf
dying amid the matter of itself
outward bound.

(c) Copyright Brendan E Byrne 2019. All rights reserved.