Midnight ink spills, no rhyme, no reason,
just your absence pooling black between my fingers.
The quill remembers what I dare not speak
Your gloves, still warm with the ghost of touch,
empty now except for the bones they cradle.
Your last unwritten words curled inside them,
like fists around a secret.
The fireplace gnaws your drafts first,
spitting back only scraps I salvage.
From the ember’s hunger,
charred edges
Softened by my spit, my desperate palms,
flattening them beneath the weight of dictionaries,
trying to parse the grammar of your leaving.
And the gloves.
Oh, the gloves.
They do not move.
They do not write my name.
They simply wait,
As I do.
For a hand that will never return
to fill them.
this is excellent dearest Adagio ❤️
Thank you, Brenda
Seems like a poem of loss. A well written one. Well done! “)
Thank you M.E.