The echo of love
may have a longer decay
than the moment giving it birth.
Ever fainter by desire or spite
it remains limpet-like grasping
as if the inexorable fading
can be stilled by arising memories.
Once the bonds are broken
it can remain an artifact, a moment
valued in itself even
when the source is no longer
present or wanted, for it
remains woven deeply into
the present capacity
to love again, to love fully
to emerge from the shadows.