R.I.P.

 

R.I.P.

 Love lays writhing on the dusty floor; dying a silent death,

Broken beyond repair, riddled by regret.

 

It isn’t alone though; it has company to see it pass

Friends, co-conspirators, brothers-in-arms,

All huddled around in tacit sympathy,

As it breathes its last

 

There’s that iPod with its belly-full of never-old songs,

They may well loop again, but without the same meaning,

Beside it, the stack of oft-read books with dog-eared pages,

Hiding shared insights that will never again be as appealing

 

Tucked in one corner, is that battered album,

Full of memories captured in film,

A motley collection of redundant yesterdays

Trapped unawares beneath its skin

 

Fluttering forlornly in the rear, is that pile of letters,

Laden with words once ripe and succulent with intent,

But now shriveled and dead-weights,

Like unwanted tenants that have overstayed their rent

 

Looming large is the dark, brooding flat screen TV,

It’ll someday continue to deliver its litany of laughter and tears;

Of drama and intrigue, of victories and defeat,

But now, none of these stories may ever feel quite complete

 

Amongst the dust, also crawl the smaller debris of this ruin

Carefully saved tickets to concerts and movies once seen,

The credit card receipts, the shared slippers, the abandoned cigarette pack;

The now-orphaned herd of stuffed toys and countless other bric-a-brac

 

Then there are the invisible mourners that hover quietly above

Ghosts of broken promises, tainted trust and of imagined future stuff,

And the echoes of so many perfect silences,

That; in their time said so much, but just not enough

 

They gather around and try to ease its passage to a happier shore,

Until, at the turn of a key locking the door,

Two sets of footsteps walk away;

And Love finally dies on the dusty floor.

 

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