As yet Untitled

I step into the room
Her presence is still pervasive
The bed remains as warm, inviting, comforting
As it always was
I catch a whiff of her hair on the pillows and cushions.
Vanilla …

My hands brush against her dressing table, tracing her regular pattern
There lies the brush that swept her hair
A hundred strokes a day till it spun like silk
There sits the jewellery box with its myriad of compartments - pearls, rubies, white gold, diamonds.
There they lie in their bed of velvet, glinting in the midday sun.
Yet none can match the twinkle of her smile.

Her perfume.
That intoxicating, alluring, encompassing, scent that defined her.
The closet.
Overflowing with her clothes, shoes, bags, yards of material and her special sheets …

This is the suit she wore to my birthday,
The dress she wore on hers.
The too expensive shoes she saw in the shop, and “just had to have”
The scarf I loaned her the night she stayed over, (that she never returned)

Ah! The “suitcase”.
The bag she carried everyday, everywhere.
Her wallet is still in there
The umbrella she always carried. Just incase.
The tissues, scraps of paper with little notes, receipts …
The almost empty pot of lip gloss
Her hand cream …
The new Feist book, she’s been taking forever to finish …

I hear a faint echo of her laugh and whip around
My imagination is playing tricks on me
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
It feels like the room is holding its breath …
Waiting …

I sink into the bed, bury my nose into the pillow, hug it close.
I finally close my eyes and let it all out.

She’s gone and she’s never coming back.