This is rough, but I actually wrote this a month before the bottom fell out. Women's intuition? Mayhaps.
I found the stain today,
gaping wet red mouth staring back at me.
I can tell you don't care for me
as you once did,
though you still laugh at my jokes,
trace circles on my open palms, hold
my brown hair in your hands tentatively
as if you aren't sure how
It used to be summer in this house:
windows flung open
in the sticky night,
moths flying blinding into porchlight,
not waiting even for a breeze to blow.
Eighty more year of contemplative comraderie
then our flesh rots and wastes.