A waiting room
Where walls stare at the silence
And cap hangs on an empty chair
Tucked under a table
Which lingers, but no longer expects.
Parker pen, redundant now
Rests in premature peace
On newspaper cuttings
And half-written letters,
All that’s left of a life.
I stand, rooted but rootless,
And try to bypass the pain
To remember you here,
In your den, but all I feel
Is ourselves alone.
Unfinished business divides us;
Unspoken love between us.
When you left, I forgave you
For not saying goodbye.
I still need to forgive myself.
