What more to life can there be, beyond branches weighed down with verdant leaves?
Birds gather by the thousands in the trees,
a relentless chorus demanding attention.
I watch them from my windowsill,
head resting against the grame,
gazing longingly at first.
The view is no longer my muse,
it is a distraction from what I should be feeling,
but am not.
I speak the words out loud, it will be okay,
but they are hollow,
empty as the birdsong beyond the glass.
The window is clear, yet it reflects the candle behind me.
Beyond the flickering light,
a collage clings to the wall,
a shrine to what is no more.
I live as if nothing has changed,
I am a performer in a play with a script well rehearsed,
I smile and say the right lines,
until I am alone. My real face emerges.
A frown revealed, dull eyes and an unfocused stare.
There is no reason for my day,
no purpose to be found,
only existence itself.
I look for the remnants of what was once so pure,
the memories are jagged now,
I bleed from trying to hold them.
Tell me, what more to life can there be, beyond branches weighed down with verdant leaves, when there will never again be a you and me?