Sepia Good Times

A living, breathing photograph of the best parts of my life

Her eyes are glazed and see a stranger
Mine are pained as I look at my wife
Our final hours are now broken up by weeks
Designated visits strictly limited to 60 minutes
Should leave things left unsaid
Should leave things incomplete

But without fail there is silence
As she searches for memories
I obsessively check the time
And try to bury thoughts of her decline beneath

Thoughts of the sepia good times

And there are occasional glimpses of recognition
But I’ve learnt to dismiss them
As the well-oiled pistons of a driverless train
Yeah her face occasionally flexes
Into shapes so well practiced
When her broken synapses
Spark in the right way

But it’s never quite the same…