The night is still and the house is bathed in silence
Warm orange glow glides from lamp to lamp
She has set there on the couch, hugging her knees
For days now
The sun, as it passed, saw her there
At least twice now
Immobile, she breathes
And the house breathes with her
A letter sits, envelope jaggedly ripped open
A letter she knows so well
She could trace every one of the paper’s fibres
Plot each one of them to their end,
and read from the ridges of ink that dart its tundra
And yet
she could not tell you every word
“We regret to inform you”
“In his sleep”
And the rest is sand on a desert wind.
The words, though few, leave their mark
Purple bruises that blush each cheek
And a churning sickness in her gut.
Soon the flies will descend,
He will rot on the paper in front of her
Turn into an idle thought
Castrated by the healing wounds
But now she weeps for her defeat.
He knew you see,
It was nothing but one last last word
One last fight
One last calculated tear
All before she had the chance
To finally see him die