Friday, October 30, 2015

the abandoned ...




the abandoned ...

she sits at his cluttered desk
her hand touching the dark oak
stained with pale rings from winter mugs of coffee
and frosty summer glasses of whiskey
and her fingers trace every one
in an endless repetition that measures
eternity and her infinite sadness
for the man she loved and lost in death

she remembers his body
the ripple of muscle that snaked
like a restless vine across his back
and she remembers how she would hold him close
hold him so tight
that his body would disappear into hers
and now she groans with sorrow
in the vacuum of her loneliness

she glances at the photograph
perched behind a confusion of papers
and sees herself in a younger day
dressed in a white shawl
that flutters like wings from her shoulders
and when she reaches for its wooden frame
her hand disappears into ghostly transparency
just as the front door rattles and he returns to his empty life
 









 








 
 


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