What are we&;#063;

I am but a butterfly archaeologist
In winter, grasping
At the ethereal
Blood and flesh
Of memory.

You are but discarded toys,
Paint blistered
Bleached yellow valentines
And photos,
Treasured in secret places.

What are we but echoes
In a subjective metaphysic;
I, decayed energies;
You, a fading glimmer
A partly forgotten face
And a voice
Now not remembered.