Behind a wooden door with a brass knob,
Sit’s a quiet plea for more.
It does not weep or sob or smile or frown.
All it can do is sit on the ground.
Rectangular in shape and faded with use,
But by the time you see that,
Your timing is a little to late.
The latches are latched,
And the handle’s ready to go.
Soon the plan will be hatched
And he’ll know… 2 comments
Behind a wooden door with a brass knob,
Sit’s an empty space.
No note, nor words, not even household mutter.
Just a goodbye in it’s place.
A hole amongst the clutter.
It was as quiet as a whisper,
As painful as a blister.
It was her leaving him,
It was her silent retreat.
