Looking at the solemn plaques

Reading the last rites

Scanning over marble,

Tracing curious fingers over smooth,

Flawless pebbles

Crouching down to whisper

A last, sorrowful goodbye

Off, out of the suffocating garden

Off and running

Back to the desolate house

Draped in a shroud of shivah

Flanked with covered mirrors

Ones that would shatter if gazed upon.

The quiet of a haunted house,

Filled only with the wailings of

A longing from the mourning friend

The depressed zealot, the one who found faith

In his soft caress.

The one who chose to believe that his words

Carried the righteous messages.

That he never meant any harm to anyone.

She rocks back and forth,

Ankles creaking with age,

With sorrow.

She picks at the fraying ends

Of the now off-white dress.

The intricate beading around the collar,

The swirling, voluminous skirts.

She collapses over the water-stained boxes

The portal to the realm of her joyous past.

"No more…" she whispers.

She buries her face into the billowing silk

And allows herself to plummet to the polished floorboards.

She cradles the photographs, the memoirs, the love…

"You said you could stay with me…"

Tears that have been fossilized for years begin to

Press against her eyes.

"You said you could heal me…"

Her breathing became ragged, pressing against

Her lungs, suffocating her last thread to the "real world"

"You said you could love me…"