Last night the candle went out.
It could be the wind.
The light was ancient
among the ancient things
of the dining room.
The kettle for tea,
the plate, the glasses. Us.
She just turned off
when she came in (the wind)
and I no longer saw myself in the mirror
of the sideboard.
She turned off
and the dining room was silent,
no flavors
nor the caramels that he carried in his pocket
nor I
nor the birds
nor the papers where you were letter, word, sentence.
my dead go with me
And that's why they're still alive
In my dreams they speak to me
In my memory they breathe
I feel them in my blood
Circulating through my memories
Breathing through my pores
Sharing my visions
They don't forget me
They are my dead dear
That with me they are still alive