The laundry piles haphazardly in the untouched bedroom.

Cotton shirts, wrinkled dress pants, underwear; none have endured the onslaught of the washing machine in weeks.

My novels - treasured, crumpled, weathered paperbacks of murderers, sorcery & lost love - lie dormant.

His face, aged and unshaven, lacks the lustre that quickened my heartbeat when I began to realise that I loved him.

He doesn't get around to frivolous cleaning or grooming, his soul much too preoccupied.