The dew drops failing off the frail stem demanded a closing
I know not what it is,
But something kept them desperately dangling.
She filled her fountain pen with ink
She could not operate machines. Not then. Not any more.
"Technology eats away the little joys that make me happy" she alleged.
She took out her aged diary, now speckled with her son's mischief
She wanted to write, but settled on doodling little hearts instead.
It bought back memories, of a different time, of different smiles.
It bought back memories of him, of them, and their times.
One abstract thought, And she tore the page off.
She finds what she wrote one day,
Lying there ironically, a metaphor today.
A tear fell, hot as acid, scarring the flimsy white.
Nostalgia--She wrote and then, wrote some more.
In her heart she had forgiven but, never forgotten.
The promises they made of together growing old and trodden.
They said the pain would subside in a month or, two if not in days.
But, time moved too fast for her to keep pace.
Why did the pain not subside
Even after all these years had rolled by?
"Hadn't she suffered enough?"
Her answers continued to itch her fate.
She didn't know what to feel anymore.
The answers were always a closed door.
Right and wrong always agreed with one another.
Her face frequently broke into griefs with a tremor.
She needed a closure and somehow it hid itself well.
A sudden squeak of wood against the floorboards and barely a thud.
Her husband was home. She heard him hang his trench coat.
She had been a faithful, loving wife all these years yet,
somehow she cursed herself for a betrayal and cried.
For a part of her dream last night, once again died