An empty room.
A tidy bed.
There fell a loom
with a snipped thread.
I search, consumed,
for any trace
of your perfume.
I seek your face
in walls so dull
And curtains closed
In closets full
of silent clothes.
At last I pull
your blanket close,
The last of you
wilts like a rose.
I face the precipice
of dying innocence.
A vacant couch
where aching bones
once sat. A house,
no more a home.
The extra mug
and extra chair.
The painful tug
of pure despair.
And tears they claw
and sear my throat.
Inside I’m raw;
Outside composed.
No tears can clean
me from this pain,
For in my genes,
you are ingrained.
And here I face the precipice
of dying innocence
Swift were the wings of death
In their benevolence.
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 9:03 AM UTC
An empty room.
A tidy bed.
There fell a loom
with a snipped thread.
I search, consumed,
for any trace
of your perfume.
I seek your face
in walls so dull
And curtains closed
In closets full
of silent clothes.
At last I pull
your blanket close,
The last of you
wilts like a rose.
I face the precipice
of dying innocence.
A vacant couch
where aching bones
once sat. A house,
no more a home.
The extra mug
and extra chair.
The painful tug
of pure despair.
And tears they claw
and sear my throat.
Inside I’m raw;
Outside composed.
No tears can clean
me from this pain,
For in my genes,
you are ingrained.
And here I face the precipice
of dying innocence
Swift were the wings of death
In their benevolence.
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