On the edge of a hill, on a warm day

I asked you to marry me, and you said:

“There is nothing, not one thing that remains

for me to consider.” The wedding came

and went, we settled into a long bed

on the edge of a hill, on a warm day.

In September, we tirelessly made

new friends, then lovers, who’d come to forget

there is nothing, not one thing that remains

constant in this life. We lost them in May,

and then became bitter, filled with contempt

on the edge of a hill, on a warm day.

“I love you” we said each night through the pain,

like a rote incantation to the dead.

There is nothing, not one thing that remains

sacred, I thought. By June, you moved away,

the house empty, our money divided.

On the edge of a hill, on a warm day

there is nothing, not one thing that remains.