Pre-dawn whispers, a rumpled landscape of sheets

where her warmth should linger.

The house, a cathedral of quiet,

Devoid of the sizzle, and clanking of pans,

that usually heralded the start of their day.

Sunlight, a thief breaching the blinds,

Stretches across the battlefield of the kitchen table.

The scent of perfume lingers on the air,

A folded parchment, a white flag of surrender,

Amidst the golden glow of morning light.

The folded paper lies like a wounded bird,

It’s edges, creased and fragile.

He shuffles closer, a marionette with grief for strings,

and unfolds the stark landscape of their ending.

Tears, a relentless tide, rise from a well of shattered vows.

He imagines the house crumbling, Cracking like his heart,

He glances out the window, Framed by Lacey curtains,

At a world that is indifferent to his pain.

He wonders if he, like the sun, will rise again ,

But for now, He crumples,

A fallen warrior amidst the wreckage

of a love that once bloomed in this sun-dappled room.