Light Oak

Photo by D. Cerrito

How I hate
     that I can carry
          you up the stairs
               in one hand.
 
It’s the weight
     that makes me sorry
          when I compare
               you now to then.
 
And the form –
     cold to my kisses
          as we ascend
               toward the top.
 
My love is gone.
     My love is ashes.
          My love has ended
               in a box.