ManicWorld Magazine

A bourbon in hand, she settles by the windowsill
as the clamor of condolences, the hushed speeches
curl and dissolve like moths in amber rays,
her chest rises and falls in jagged waves
a desperate attempt at catching up with trembling breaths.

The room is a mausoleum of memories
wooden counters, once a shrine of fresh lilies
now embrace the look of a forsaken, parched field
the mirror, smeared with smudged fingerprints
cigar smoke clings, like a dark veil of regret in the air she breathes.

The creased sheets hoard his scent like a jealous lover
the glasses still cradle the last drop of his favourite merlot
she waves her hands through the air, frantic for a touch
only to feel the echo of a past that no longer answers.

With a heart heavy as the nimbus
eyes weary like a scorched summer desert
lips quivering, she utters:
“God, tell me he hasn’t left this space!”

He came to profess love
but left her alone to learn the language of loss,
now she stumbles barefoot through dim lit corridors
shackled to lost time, unaware of a clearheaded present.

Tangled threads knot up in her chest
the wilted lilies crawl to the window, gasping for breath
and she knows:
some things must be cleared, a lot must be mended
but the past still clings, like smoke on her bare skin.