The Theater of Farewells

A crisis, like most crises,
Raised up by past solutions,

Episodic memories
Vacate their assigned seating

In the orchestra as well.
All the seats remain labeled,

Which causes consternation.
That past solution whispers

How empty things are getting,
And the glimpse of a brass plate

That ought to have been obscured
By a thoughtful pair of eyes,

A breathing recollection,
Warm scents of limbs and blossoms,

Something vividly intent,
Is unsettling. The absence

Of a surplus organized
And orderly is harder

To bear than the gradual
Diminishment of a mess.

Sink into an empty seat
And sigh. Stay with me a while.