Wrapped in cellophane as though preserved waiting to once again be opened.
He washed the sheets today, a month on.
Her scent now gone but He can still smell her.
He never wanted to feel again. He didn't have the capacity.
An Ill defined future.
Nothing inside
But she lit up the room.
Like an arsonist with no thought as to what or who she burned.
It was like getting excited opening a tin of beans and craving them on toast, and finding half of it is liquid.
That said, she could never be a woman that only ate lettuce.
Her body was the incarnation of curvature.
Its sweeping form more beautiful than anything he had known or imagined, and yet fleeting.
For she was a muse.
Fleeting.
Lost.
Passing through.