JanPoWriMo 14

It seems that all the songs 
We sing to ourselves
In the middle of the night
Waiting for dawn
To return in our sleep
Are gifts from the future
Where we are not dead
And our being is not loss
That you remember
The pictures you never took
This temporary flesh fresco
Still potential from ear to mouth
Recollecting the day as
Momentarily in your grasp
Though years have since passed
And the song faded out
To be replaced with this
Ever present empty loudness
The only song left to sing
A day that never happened