Love letters, yellowed
lay on a bedside table.
Adoration six decades old;
two decennium plus six decennium her age.
Antiqued with time,
her memories fade each day.
"Save me," she whispers to the ladies
in white as they pass her door. They
pat her hand and ask, "What shall we save you from Mary"?
She points to the man in her room, "from him," she says.
Sympathetic smiles embrace his heart. Tears
expunge his pain.
His wife is lost to this mind disease.
Regardless, there are moments when he recognizes
flashes of memory in her eyes, the scales drop.
Softly she calls his name, then retreats into the void.
Weathered hands reach for the letters;
She's read them a thousand times.
The woman has her name and the man,
the man whoever he is, is called Tom.
Someone surly is missing these words of requited love.