And so once more he looked at her, as he had so often before. He looked at her with love in his eyes as she walked right out of the door. She always said that she wouldn’t stay, but they met so long ago, that he never even thought of it. He just didn’t think she’d go.

And now he sits alone at night at a table set for one, her perfume lingers in the air but all her things are gone. The wardrobe now is not crammed full, her shoes no longer there. The mirrors and her hairbrush, nor even a single hair.

They’d argued many times before, such little tiny things. This time it couldn’t be resolved, the pain of it still stings. Neither one would yield at all, it then got out of hand. And bitter words then followed which neither could understand.

So thus it seemed that all this time their life had not been real, the things she thought she had once felt, she didn’t really feel. All the things she had at first, all the sense of thrill. She had to go she told him although she loved him still.

And so he waits for her return, in patient solitude. He said he’d always wait for her, whatever she pursued. But knocks on the door are infrequent and keys in the latch are none. He sadly, looks in the wardrobe and knows she will always be gone.

©Joe Wilson – An empty wardrobe…2016