The day she died the milk turned sour.
He tossed and turned in the dead sheets to absorb her smell.
The part of her that lingers.
His mind cradling their memories resurrected.
He cannot see the light travel through the window.
He just keeps finding isolated hairs on her pillow.
Nobody believed in her growth more than him.
The blanket lies flat next to him.
He cannot hear her heartbeat. He cannot sleep.
He breathes against cold air.
It shatters him inside.
Her wordlessness is all he hears.
He cannot grasp the difference between where they both lie –
And why they were torn apart.
He wants to bring her body home.
Mute the tormenting sounds of her life in his mind.
He doesn’t see how the images in his brain can be so different from reality.
Where did they take her?
He clasps the hair so tightly in his fist and can’t believe the twist.
They hadn’t seen it coming.
She will always stay.
He knows that much.
As she smiles at him from that photograph.
As he projects his love onto her face that radiates and lets the sun come in.
“Femme de dos, se déshabillant” by Eugène Carrière (1849-1906)