My lord, I have remembrances of yours…
—Hamlet, 3.1.93

My love, I have remembrances of yours
to give back now that nothing else remains—
letters or cards delivered to the doors

of homes I lived in long ago, no worse
for so much pained reading between the lines.
Should I return remembrances of yours,

or keep them? Words last; nothing else endures.
Ophelia knew. Each line I read sustains
your presence, ruined memory of doors

that shut behind—between us, back when stars
cluttered the sky with constellations, signs
not meaningless. Remembrances of yours

I can’t destroy or throw away, the source
of cadence, rhythm, voice, though paper thins
and letters fade from pages. All the doors

of all the lives we’ll never lead…Reverse
the path of stars, see how it all begins—
My love, I hold remembrances of yours—
these words you touched…The dark behind closed doors.