Her empty side of the bed we shared,
The little things she bought for the house,
The kitchen utensils she bought on a whim,
Her garden tools against the wall;
Her cosmetics drawer frozen in time,
The foot-scrub I bought her that she’ll never use,
Her favourite perfume waiting for her,
Her photos… everywhere;
Her voice absent from each desolate room,
A shopping list pencilled in her lovely hand,
The wardrobes hung with her every mood,
The gardens forlorn, begging her touch;
The dogs by the door awaiting her return,
The lethargy that drags at my feet,
The panic that rises from heart to mouth,
The tears, oh the tears that flow without end;
That cynical lack of respect for death,
That unending, cosmic loneliness.
Do I still miss her? Have I forgotten my grief?
Here lie some clues for those wondering if...
