He swallows down memories of drunken nights they shared,
Attempting to sedate himself as he carves out the part of his soul she use to keep her early morning smiles and mid-day rendezvous in

Maybes use to be the currency on which trips to the shore and evenings at IHOP ,contemplating plans of future figurines of themselves, were purchased

She left the screen door open that morning she left her last will & testament to their love on the back of a leaflet from the neighborhood watch,
As if it would guard her words carefully

“Maybe in another life…”,
She said in her last sentence
Leaving the fog, rain and wind behind her
“…things might be different.”

Surgery nearly complete,
Tears begin to well, as the memory of their very first night and the first time she named him, “Good morning” , flash in spectacular colors across his minds eye

“I love you… maybe”,
She says through a smile hidden beneath the bed sheets
“Maybe… I love you, too”, he responds

The memory fades into grey
Maybes mean nothing