He sits

Perched on the edge

Of the sofa,

Staring at the floor,

Not caring

That it is covered,

More in empty wine bottles,

Than carpet.

The table

Holds the rotting remnants

Of meals

Uneaten,

Unpalatable,

This is not

The food

He craves.

The curtains

Hang sullenly,

On windows

Rich with grime,

They soften the chimes

Of lovers laughter,

As they carelessly

Pass by.

She has gone,

Never to return, 

And he must learn

To live without her.

Shed the burning sorrow,

Live again.

Maybe,

Tomorrow................................

                                        _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Owain Glyn