All that remains, any evidence you were here
are ashes and chianti, dried in empty glasses
sitting in circles surrounding an empty table.
We had gathered to celebrate last night.
Your life, burning well, was smoke and honor
raised as orphaned prayers for what was.
Conversation hung stale in this air
and promises made sting my nose.
Staring at cinders and dregs, a fortune could be divined
from a scarlet past to a rubied future.
When relentless sea birds laugh at storm-grey seas
with hopeless voices, only ghosts will bless.
Your soot footprints fall upon the hearth
and in turning off the lights, I am still, alone.