The golden chain-hung chandelier watches over the table.
The same we sat across while you sipped your milk coffee.
Still seeing you in that broken chair, 
though five years empty now.

The birds call, and squirrels carry on just outside
the sliding glass doors and the moss-covered porch.
We set each other at ease, though barked too

under the candle bulbs, we fought it all out
through the frustrations of surviving and dying where
you went first.