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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: October 04, 2010

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Submitted: October 04, 2010




She thought he’d be there
Always, took it for granted,
Never imagined that death

Would come so suddenly,
So unexpectedly and take
Him off. She still expects

Him to come home, to come
Through the door, his face
Lit up, his eyes having that

Same brightness, his voice
Breaking through the silence
Like the sun at dawn. Even

The funeral and the priest’s
Words and blessings haven’t
Removed that expectation,

She still waits at night for
Him to enter the bed, for his
Arms to embrace her, his lips

To kiss, to make love to her
As he always did. You’ll have
To mourn for him a decent

While before you chase another,
Said her stern mother. There’s
Other fish in the sea; don’t be

Getting all in black for ever,
Her sister said, although she
Claimed she never. She imagines

She sees him on the street, sees
Him on buses, trains and in people
Passing, and in the eyes of others

She may meet. Time’s a great
Healer, her father said, give it
Time, occupy your mind, work’s

A fine way to forget, he said,
I always find. But she, waiting
In bed or by the door or looking

Out at the passing throng at busy
Stations or streets or crowded
Shops, still thinks she sees him

And all her world stops, but it isn’t
Him, just a different man who has
His hair or walk or sounds similar

In his talk. Grief is very lonely,
She says in her head, there’s no
Poorer company than the silent dead.

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