Afterwards

We wind the clocks of our lives
without ever once knowing the time,
ignoring our ever slowing pulse
with little regard for what is to come.
But what of afterwards?

What remains of us when we slip from view
and hide our shadows from the sun?
Do we watch from the nothingness,
our hands trembling from the forging of memories,
smiling at how it was? 

What happens when the cup is drained
and conversation fades into the silence,
taking with it that which we were?
Do we remember everything said and done
and load it into a grieving emptiness?

Or do we seek out each other again 
in those familiar everyday places
where the most innocent of threads
are woven into the fondest of memories,
settling gently onto smiling lips?

We live forever through what is left behind,
the coat that still hangs in the hall
or the favourite mug on the stand or
rain that beats against the window on snuggled evenings.
These are the places we call afterwards.