Picking up a thread

Beneath the quiet,
the tucked-in,
the folded pages of him,
he laid down glimpses
of wooden spoons
and open robes,
bathing in their memory
until she picked up
a thread
leading to his attic,
as cluttered and dusty as hers,
which in its glory
had been at best
a summer song
but now only sounded lost;
they found harmony
in their blackened hearts
and wished only
for a little time to sing.

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