A street in a memory circa 1993,
only no sunshine and no orange coat,
just an emptiness filled with silence:
a gap on the grey brick wall where you sat
for a pause on the walk that you walked with me.
Despite those years, still I feel
your whiskers pressed against my face;
the well-trodden pile on the carpet
where I collected all your coins one morning;
the sodden hands that washed up after our meal.
But all that detail's as dead as you,
and I cannot recount a single word,
nor hear the voice through which you spoke.
All is now a memory silenced,
like you never were, and were never spoken to.