He sits in his usual tattered chair,
room.
He holds a handbag on his frail lap.
The bag is aged and worn, torn-
the seams are undone.
The bag is shut, a dusty gold clasp.
He caresses the sides of the bag-
loss.

His hands have seen many a year,
the bag has too.
The aged hands glow- white- in the murky room.
So do his eyes.
His eyes stare at the bag.

His back is straight,
he is alone in the room.
He sits, in solitude-
the lights are off.

The bag smells of musk,
there's a small mirror inside.
The mirror is broken-
cracked right through the middle.
Seven years, bad luck.
The mirror is closed,
and has been for days, years, months, hours.
Ever since it was last opened-
used.

A tear falls onto the clasp of the bag,
and marks it, wets the dust.

He can still smell her perfume in the air.