Alone
December's harshness in the air
can never quite compare to the ice
inside your eyes-your stoic lack
of apathy.
So now your gone,
and what have you left me?
warm wine three quarters
left untouched;
a faded photo down the hall;
drab dishes stacked in
stained grey cabinets.
The oaken table left
unfinished beside a
bare and sterile wall.
Do not return again, my love;
. To many chilly days have been
absorbed into -to many frigid nights.
Copyright © Allen Beilschmidt Sr. | Year Posted 2019
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