It’s like a gnarled handprint
that remains on the table
no matter the number of attempts
to scrub it away.
Just try to no longer notice it.
Try not to think about it.
Try to think about anything else.
scrub it away
Manuscripts with their jolly and vibrant colors
There are more coffee table books
than happy memories
in that place.
Manuscripts with their jolly and vibrant colors,
begging those who pass time on the beige couch there
to see, to read,
to look at their shiny, captivating images.
They are a distraction
from the stony silence
that envelops that living room
where very little living is done.
The home was meant to be
a shared abode
but, as fate would have it,
not by the two
who dreamed to drape themselves
in blankets of familiarity
Those who thought they would find comfort
in the chest of the other.
One book on the table features pictures of nature,
images of green spring days,
of places to go to be at peace.
On the cover is a blooming clover field,
the type made for rest,
blooming with flowers
that call to the bees.
On the day one moved out,
taking those books on their way,
very little else changed.
The other stayed, as did the couch
as did the silence.
The one left to live there
and to find someone new to share this home with
sometimes still dreams of those clover fields
featured on the nature book cover,
hoping next time won’t be