Old evening light
Greeting the windowsills.
Tethered by the door,
A good night’s whisper
Willowing upon the halls.
A warm pillow soaking up
The salty rivers of your cheek.
Of days that once belonged.
Of hours you cradled in your arms.
Of lullabies crumpled in your throat.
How many pages have you bound
From tears and wary hope.
Of words left in charcoal
Smeared upon the stained satin.
Of spectre fingers interlaced
In between yours and the sheets.
Of a moment made beautiful
And utterly destructive.
And washed away it has.
Flowing to the sea,
White foam, dissipating,
Of sodium tasting enough
To savor one last twilight.
To flip the page is a step.
Just over the cockled paper,
Pristine pulp, waiting for your touch.
It anticipates,
Watching the evening light
Cast matte shadows
Over your blackened sockets.
It waits for you.