at last, the dregs

We mixed these cups together, once
and sip by sip, contented us.
But up you rose, before begun
was barely underway. You left,
and left me yours to muse upon.

I looked in mine: it was yet full.

I drank in deeper draughts, from then
but still it runneth over lips
to stain each day's shirt, donned anew,

and put away,
ruined by you.

Or no. By my own greediness,
to taste again from cup so blest!

At last, the dregs.
There's barely left a stain
of our sweet bitterness

to whet the tongue,
remembering you.

And all you gave,
in our brief pause
between the wars
and chores and pains,
and all we had to do
with them.

I lift it up, upending all
this last that slips and drips
in me, of what our love

forgot, forgave
in our brief cause,
so long since lost,
so long before,
to which we gave

our lives, for once
but not for all.

It's happening.

My cup is done.

I reach for yours.