There is an empty bed –
flowers red, of remembered afternoons.
In between the rushing of the home goers
stopping to assemble, her undone shoes
she clings to her battle scars, like an
over friendly balustrade.
Was there a deadline – a timeline
for being such a fool?
Yet in amongst the ashes of her reserve
tiny foretastes of their flesh –
of those, occasions together:
Still cling tight.
Aureoles of wishful reprisal, knock
against her now absconded happiness.
It was the evenings, oozing their sour taste
in between the closing of the curtains
and looking across at the now
abandoned, empty bed, that made her say:
So much for love – so little, for always being
Poppy November 2013 ~xx~