We began our dream here, as newly-weds,
Amongst the paint-pots and dustsheets.
I can see her now, young and spirited,
Dressed in my old torn shirt, hair tied high,
As time passed us by, this place became home,
Filled with the aromas of fresh baked bread
And percolated coffee.
And she would sing, always a little off-key,
And give a little chuckle if she caught me listening.
All of that was a lifetime ago…
Now here, in our bedroom, our sacred space,
Where she made me promise never to forget her,
I wait, in the knowledge that she will come to me
As she always does, around this time.
She will walk through that doorway,
A vision in white, her long hair flowing.
The sadness almost tangible.
And, although her heartrending cries haunt me,
I refuse to shut them out.
Aching to hold her close, for one last time.
I still reach out, to touch her,
But there is no substance.
An ethereal nothingness.
Each night is both ecstasy and torment!
Time heals, they tell us,
But since I died,
Her sorrow has seemed infinite…
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