117. Vanilla

The room grows quiet,
the footsteps leave haltingly,
pausing at the door.
Perhaps remembering
words that weren’t said.

Shadows fall tall
on the ground outside.
Leaves drift in a scented breeze.
A taste of longing so sweet.
A fragrance that pulls
at the heart,
not letting those memories sleep.

The room is quiet.
Even the breath makes no sound.
I strain to hear
the absence of your voice.

©Brindology 2017

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