Without her the days were five hundred miles long, torturous, and anticlimactic.
It was impossible to fill the void. Even the fields of flowers wilted without her sun.
She tried to fill the days- idle hands, she could hear an old warning in the empty wave of Summer heat.
She called an old standby, lackluster words- worthy of moments and not years. No long-lasting life lessons.
She turned pages in her books, without reading them- it was all for effect.
She sank into warm waters, not enough light to float- praying her lungs would suddenly collapse.
She made love, in cold sheets- closing her eyes to see someone else.
She wished for an hourglass, with only one grain of sand- a promise of soon.
She sat next to an inky black lake, one reflection looming there- a threat she would not forget.
She yearned for a dreamer’s posthumous illusion, a life yet lived- a war-torn period, an ancient history.
Dandelion wishes kissed her love parched lips, sticking to the afternoon heat.
Ahead, down a forgotten-gravel-salted-dirt-road to an open field of wildflowers thirsty for laughter she fell back to lay there, to stay there, to wait.