She’s gone.
I slowly open her closet
I breath in her scent.
Shakily, I tell myself
that what lies in her
closet are just things,
she is gone.
There isn’t much here.
2 pairs purple pants,
27 scarfs,
a beaded purse,
a diet book,
shabby red boots,
6 blouses in rainbow colors.
A notebook lies on one shelf,
of her poetry,
(I didn’t know she
wrote poetry)
Also a music box in the
shape of a carousel,
it no longer plays.
There’s a pile of old letters
rubber banded together,
in a heart shaped
candy box
I stop.
Pick up a framed
photograph.
She is dancing by the sea,
at dusk, alone.
