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.
Vanilla.
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

If you like this post and would like to read more of my poems, please follow Brindology

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s