Jiggling the key in her normal routine, his wife opened the door to see his pen resting on the pad, his tea complete with every sip.

Not a word on the pad. A sign, firm evidence, a symptom, confirming a poet is missed.

Absence of words are greater than absence of man, is a poet truly living if he doesn’t write?

The woman stood still processing the sight, gaining a roommate having lost her husband that night.