Title: The Widow at Ö÷²¥´óÐã
by william from Somerset | in writing, poetry
The water was dry.
She'd extinguished the flowers.
Orchids littered her
Linoleum floors.
Soaked into their petals was
The funeral,
More time that could be clogged
In the Hoover.
They look like broken hearts
Strewn all around her;
She didn't understand
That
The dust can no longer be drowned,
It just settles, waiting.
She can't know
That
She hadn't lost anything
But another face
Morphing into the past,
Overreaching fragrant memories.
She can hear the petals crunching
Under her polished black heels,
But she knows that she can't
Smell them anymore.
She grazes the lock on the door
With her abdomen.
The coldness of the steel
startles her solemnity
Is it love?
Is this love?
Do I need one?!
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