when you touch the petals
of the crimson flower
perfumed by his musky scent
or read aloud the sacred words
written with his golden pen
you swoon in a world beyond your reach
only to realize that the broken shards
of the crystal vase still lie
on the cold checkered floor
while the wine and cheese
remain untouched waiting to be savored
by mouths that would swallow
what has been sung....
the only thought that remains is
"Where is he?"
Where is he
as you lie there clutching
on his shirt that is absorbing
tears for the second time...
Where is he?
your heart demands
as it receives showers
that extinguish what has been lit
but never cared for...
Where is he?
MT~28-2-2015