It is shadow

It is shadow

In the memory.

A cipher in the dark.

The swirl,

That weaves

The mint breath

Of misty morning,

And the fog

That blights

The dead of night.

With nothing

Ever heard,

The echo of words

Once said,

Are too readily

Shredded,

By the nibble of time.

A vacuum,

Is all we get,

As worlds move on.

And with love gone

He stands in silence.

Without her

He has no tune.

And in the company

Of darkness

He shuffles a soft shoe,

In fur lined slippers,

Across the kitchen floor.

Turning on a sixpence,

Rising on the balls

Of his feet,

Feeling his hip,

Sliding on linoleum

Slick with the grime

Of yesterday.

He can still remember

Every step,

They were worth taking.

But they have no where

To go now,

Other than

Up the stairs and into bed,

With nothing but a hot drink

And his thoughts,

All steamed up,

Just like the windows.