With each storm,

A piece of you leaves.

Your mural downtown,

Its edges,

They bleed.

Week after week,

Paint chips away.

The sound of your laugh

Refuses to stay.

The echo of your voice.

The feel of your hand.

The warmth of your touch,

Their memory like sand.

An hourglass holds

What little remains.

As time passes,

I still feel the same.

When the grains run out

And the mural is gone.

I hope to feel better,

And to finally move on.