Crossing the threshold

she enters the cold cobweb covered lounge,

And wonders what awaits her,

Cradled in the cryptlike bedroom upstairs.

He loosens his tie and lights a fire

Says nothing,

not even an expression

Of desire towards her.

The creaks of brittle floorboards fill her

with a longing to fall through them

to a second hell;

Profound peace

from this hollow shell

She was never meant to own,

Or to even dare dream of making a home.

Feeling faint she finds a chair

 and breaks down crying

Without a care for him

or how her tears might seem.

She mourns the seeds from marigolds

her mother now might never sow,

Never watch them grow.

He leaves the room for but a minute,

And to her his heavy footsteps

Mimic a man marching to war,

Knowing not what for.

He re-enters with whiskey and wine,

And handing her a glass says,

“To your health and to mine”,

Then tosses the tumbler back.

She pictures his spine

starting to crack.

Then bringing the wine to her lips

she spies some rosehips

In the window.

Her eyes widen with hope

while tears flow.

He catches her gaze and asks,

“Do you like them, love?”

Understanding that something of

her

Would always linger.

“They’re beautiful”, she replies

With a warmth she could not deny,

and smiles gently.

Without words,

he knows why.

And soon a silent joy fills the room

Like sunlight

breaking through an open tomb

at dawn.

A conversation starts between them,

Then it carries on

and on.

At last, all feelings of dread

have faded and he whispers,

“Shall we go to bed?”

His hand traces soft circles along her cheek

as she sighs,

smiles and nods.

Without words,

he understands why.