THE WAIT

A blank book lay on the table. On it, the keys of the house Waited to lock, unlock. A gilded frame, echoing memories Of love, waited, to be lifted, held. Dragonflies silently flew following the rays that streamed through the window panes. The table cloth, bed sheets; friends in time Looked at each other in the gloom. The vase stood tall, awaiting fresh flowers. Listless, the showpieces stand with webs, catching dreams they weave Secrets hushed, dust gathering on them they pose at the fallen curtains, wrinkled, torn. in the misty space, growing thin. The oval shaped glass at a distance, Still carried the perfume long used. The book on the table, waited for a pen. It’s pages, blank. Unaware, whispering A past that never gave birth to a future. On one side, a glass of water half empty, Waited to be re-filled. So has been the shelf, the cupboard, the bed waiting, to be touched, held, spent. For seven years now.