Two Women, Two Woes


She sat silently studying the crackling fire. She inhaled his blanket and fondled his giant beverage mug, empty. Her eyes burrowed into the burning logs, searching for him. His face flickered in the flames. She wept. After a few moments, she sobbed and wiped her nose with a Kleenex she had buried in her fist. She hummed a song they sang together in front of this fireplace. His soft tenor voice echoed in her memory, his sun-hewn hand wrapped tight around hers. As the embers glowed low now, the warmth drained from the room. 

Flickering Flames

She nestled tighter into the corner of the sofa hoping to find some hidden heat to stave off the shivers that shook her now. She closed her eyes and kissed his soft strong lips which turned her to jelly each time they embraced. She wept. The grandfather clock in the hall struck twelve times. Her heart swelled and broke over and over, in throbbing waves, recalling his presence. She wrapped the blanket tight around her small, lithe frame as she waited for sleep to find her. She dissolved into the dreams where she found him, again.


Then she wept, her head hung low.
Knowing what she wouldn't know.
Shattered heart, a thousand pieces.
Tattered letters, worn with creases.
Words there written tell her how
of his love, words, gone now.
Trysts they kept, stolen then,
from their lovers, a poison pen.
Lies told for the rendezvous,
more lies told to make it true.

Creased Letters

Time betrays them, passion spent,
where the loving can't repent.
Sessions closed, bolted door,
no place for them anymore.
Where has love gone and their mates?
Lost are those who hesitates.
Passing years, said refrain,
woeful memories, can't restrain.
Moments passed, days gone by.
Now she sits and wonders why.

© 2013 ajwrites57
A Long

If you enjoyed this effort, find more here: Hubpages.

Fireplace image: By FASTILY (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 ( or GFDL 

Popular posts from this blog

Stephen King’s “What Writing Is”

Santa Sat