image from dreamstime.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ At first, it was the small things~ a button loose on his coat, the way the kettle whistled but no one came. Then the clock stopped, not abruptly, but slow, as if time itself had grown tired of counting. The wallpaper remembered patterns they’d long forgotten, peeling itself back to reveal older bruises~ yellowed glue, pencil marks where someone once measured a child against the doorframe. One evening, the sofa exhaled, sagging into the shape of absence. The windows fogged with breath that wasn’t theirs. And when the last light bulb dimmed, they didn’t replace it. They sat in the thickening dark, listening to the house unbuild itself around them. *You may read the companion memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/ill_be_seeing_you_13598
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
