The light does not leave you.
Your hands remain strong.
It is your soul that begins to crumble.
You forget that you love fried eggs
with perfect yellow eyes.
You forget that you love the scent of apples
when they fall from the trees,
the warm weight of a tomato fresh from the vine,
the heft of a hoe in your hands,
and the smell of soil and sweat on summer skin.
All these little loves lie forgotten.
You look at your wife and you do not know her name.
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