The bay window sits quiet now,
Remembering the drinks rest on its mantle,
Strewn with crawling things and drifting webs,
The sea churns with dismay also,
Spitting salty distaste at the pane,
The seat still bares her stamp,
A small crater of absence where she lingered for a time,
Stands today a bitter reminder of a hand on thigh,
Or a soft kiss on a warm, rosy cheek,
He still comes here,
Riding a torrent of tears to stare at the dent,
An unwashed cardigan gripped like choke hold,
Held to a crooked nose, transport’s him to her laughter,
To a world he is unsure he even wishes to recall,
For he knows he must return,
To his dimly lit bedroom alone and cold.
He never was good at cooking,
Or washing-up as the soup-encrusted pans built up,
The chessboard serves to entice the dust,
And the queen’s lips meandered into a frown,
The knight still sits at D-four,
Awaiting her next move,
Her shampoo grows tired and drowsy,
Blackened by solemn mildew in a shower built for two,
How he longs for just one more game,
Her cunning smile pre-cursing imminent defeat,
As the days crawl onward,
And he sits by the board,
Awaiting her next move,
Her pale freckled hands fading evermore,
A perfect watercolour dripping away from the gallery of his soul,
The more he strains to retain, the faster she fades as a dream does,
Broken by the stench of a shattered heart,
For he knows he must return,
To his dimly lit bedroom alone and cold.
