Desolate
Sophine Watkis
As I whisper mellifluous nothings into the empty, heavy silence, the walls turn black.
My palms perspire, my eyes leak.
Is this real sadness?
He says he’ll be back soon.
We both know how this will end.
Still,
I wait; he’ll be back; he’ll be back: he’ll be-
Silent. He’ll be fog, musk.
He’ll be mildew.
His air, spirt, soul, is full of water:
I dehydrate.
My lips dry, crack, bleed.
He’s the ocean, a lake, a single puddle.
I drown.
As I scream, shout plea… Please.
He breathes sweet, sweet nothings.
I crack, my tears dry. There’s nothing left.
I do not bleed.
I’m empty.
He’ll be back; he’ll be back; he’ll be-
Barren,
Like the silence,
He’ll be heavy. Like my soul,
But-
He won’t be back.
It’s my fault.
I knew how this would end.