Promises of the Former
He used to call, even when he was busy. He would get home just before the clock struck twelve- but he could never rest in bed- without hearing her voice.
He used to joke, and tell her stories: he was an artist: painting pictures with his words about how beautiful their future would be.
Now they have arrived, but it's darker than she remembers.
She wonders if he remembers, the promises of the former.
If only her memories could whisper a bit louder in his ears as he lays to rest, while she lays awake in their bed.
Prayers to God: is this still love?