Are You Not Strangely Changed?

No change is other than strange
And nothing is unchanging;
Argal, everything is strange.

The park bench conversation
Over sandwiches two years
Ago leaves only park bench

Molecularly the same,
More or less. The picnics spread
On the same picnic blanket

In multiple locations
Across multiple nations
Have hardly a memory

Other than the forlorn sight
You found so melancholy
You often photographed it,

Of the blanket on the grass,
Abandoned by picnickers
Who returned for it later

Or never. Conversations,
Or their revenants, carry
Those changes as lost echoes

Somehow shaping future air,
But you, you who ate and loved
And spoke those words into air,

Even if the air remains
Altered by you forever,
Are, like them, no longer there.