Departed

The house lies empty
Hovering on edges of my senses
The faint trace your scent
As if you have just slipped out the room
Soon to return.
Pick up where you left off.
The shelves are powdered with dust
Grey as my thoughts.
The room lies cold, barren,
Dead, for your spirit is absent.
A book lies open where you left it
The story stalled never to be finished
But yours has ended.
And I, I still have mine to finish.

Copyright P H Brookes 2012

poem by Paul Brookes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!