Mourning Glory

Quiet mourning.  The kitchen clock ticks on and on, measuring moments I throw away,  like garbage in the trash.

A near empty coffee mug needs a refill of warm spicy liquid laced with cream. Soothing. I sip and contemplate the day.

Ahead of me, without you is a blank canvas to fill.   I will.

Even without you things happen.  Others stumble into my world, as you once did, leave a mark on my soul, then move on.

But your mark on my canvas is huge, and contains every color, though it is not black.   I must paint around it, and over it.  It is permanent, and I want it to be.

Quiet mourning in the morning. The kitchen clock ticks on and on.  Keeping time as time keeps me, painting on my canvas until it’s done and I am where you are again.

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