It is when you draw the curtains
on the day, that the house takes
on a different aura, the lamps lit,
the library empty of him, the study
where he often sat and wrote is
tomb-like; the passageways echo
his footsteps only in memory; his
place at dinner is vacant, although
you insist his place is set up as it
always was; his space in bed empty
of him, you sleep alone, wanting him,
wanting him so much, so much it aches
worse than any wound, it wounds you
deeply, right through to your core.
The evening sky is slowly drawing in.
The moon bright as a coin drifts by.
You have closed it out; you stand
there wanting him to embrace you
as once he would; want to sense
his kisses on your naked neck as
once he had. You walk to the chair
and listen; wait for dinner; wait for
night and sleeplessness; wait for
him who will now never ever come.
You feel so empty; feel so so numb.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
It is when you draw the curtains
on the day, that the house takes
on a different aura, the lamps lit,
the library empty of him, the study
where he often sat and wrote is
tomb-like; the passageways echo
his footsteps only in memory; his
place at dinner is vacant, although
you insist his place is set up as it
always was; his space in bed empty
of him, you sleep alone, wanting him,
wanting him so much, so much it aches
worse than any wound, it wounds you
deeply, right through to your core.
The evening sky is slowly drawing in.
The moon bright as a coin drifts by.
You have closed it out; you stand
there wanting him to embrace you
as once he would; want to sense
his kisses on your naked neck as
once he had. You walk to the chair
and listen; wait for dinner; wait for
night and sleeplessness; wait for
him who will now never ever come.
You feel so empty; feel so so numb.
A woman grieves the man she lost 1932
