The door creaks open
To a once lively apartment,
Brimming with love and laughter,
Now silent and desolate,
Except for the memories,
Calling out your name.
The scent of perfume faded,
The mirror yearned for her image,
Her towel, eager to wrap her waist,
The bed creaked in her absence,
Her possessions craved her return,
But none more than him.
His shadow misses hers during walks,
The tender hugs and occasional kiss,
The stove’s fire heats no love dinners
The bones in my body, now hollow,
Along with the void in my heart
This silent and desolate apartment,
All echo her name.
Harshal Desai believes in silences, moss clad rocks, soliloquies of stars and scents of blank pages. His work is published in Verbal Art, FineFlu, National Geographic, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, The Type Image, 805Lit, Door is a Jar, Asian Signature and SickLit Magazine. He currently resides in India, documenting his thoughts and struggles as he takes on societies norms armed with nothing more than his cheeky wit and undeniable charm. Contact him through firstname.lastname@example.org