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In my kitchen bubbles a soup.
Simmering around a bundle of scraps
are pieces of a meal left to remain.
Sitting in a bag for months at a time,
Meals that I shared with people,
Ones that aren't here now.
It sits alone now,
with me, like my soup,
in a room with no other people.
Sitting in tinting water are the scraps,
steeping liquid with the essence of time.
There is a deep gold as remain.
Golden memories remain,
And they are made liquid now.
A pot containing fragmented time.
Is soup really about soup?
Is it about the scraps,
or perhaps about the people?
I think about the people,
as I strain the golden remain
from the old, useless scraps.
They are a piece of it now,
a droplet of warm memory in soup.
A way to contain months of time.
The golden stock burbles over time.
Still, there come no people,
and I am alone with my soup.
Within its quiet flavor, I remain,
tasting pieces of memory in the now.
But all I feel like is discarded scraps.
I put new scraps
in a bag to freeze time.
The soup boils now,
and yet there are no people.
A pile of ingredients remain
alone in a pot of unshared soup.
There's no memory in these new scraps
because there are no people.
It boils away for hours at a time,
until theres only ingredients that remain.
I eat alone and quiet now
as the warmth of love leaves my soup.
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