Echoes of Unmourned
the flowers he is holding are just one of the reminders
of that grief he is holding on so rigidly,
prompting a picture of his wife, sniffing the same flowers
as she walked the aisle, he smiles stupidly.
now he reaches the place his wife’s resting, as a ritual
it’s become for him to come a week,
bringing her favorite flowers he talks to her
but not a tear sheds from his cheek.
he snuggles with his wife’s dress, he took off
of her body as token of her echoes,
he smells his wife through his lungs infusing all of her
in his veins, to every cell it flows.
he hasn’t washed her dress, for he’s addicted to the scent
of her sweat infested in the fabric,
how can he wash her off, with his tears yet
he isn’t ready to let go of her this quick.
he sits to eat in front of his wife’s chair,
empty and void of her grace,
tears yet to fall knowing he cooked two bowls of rice
even after these many days.
he still looks for his wife when he wakes up
just to find deep chasm,
he still chants her name in daily ritual, she’s gone
the truth will he ever fathom.
she might be gone forever, but left him aimlessly
stuck in the worlds’ in between,
he lives another day waiting to sleep beside her
the truth others had seen remains unseen.
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