Halcyon

the wife

tint of foundation,
strokes of bronzer,
blue skirt, pinned hair
who would've thought the liar
would paint the truth, in absolute flair?

no one noticed the glances muffled,
the pallor that shuffled,
trails of tears soaked in velvet fears.
oh, but how could she even suspect?
though she should have, in retrospect.

all the fake smiles,
soul tested for endless miles,
wondering why poets lied
that eyes always confide.

she ironed his shirt,
and smoothened out his lies.
it was easier to believe,
until she chose not to believe.
she counted his weekend trips
by the creases on his sleeves.
dinner plates set for two, untouched food,
wilted flowers kept because they should.

the cologne she memorised, her favourite plume,
smelled faintly now of someone's perfume.
past midnight, she stares at the ticking clock;
it politely accuses her of not acknowledging his mock.
the delinquent click of the door
is that how love turns sour?

she knew, she didn't ask it aloud,
because if she did, the walls might answer.
so she soothed herself with unvoiced knowing
even with all the midnight tears flowing.

she holds a man,
 who holds another woman,
in secret and silence,
when he once promised her
in health and in sickness.

this is the last straw, she vows,
 but even the haystack pities her now.
she feeds the silence
so it doesn't stampede.

hours after the night,
in the brightening achelight,
she trembles down the hall
and stares at their wedding shot.

oh wait, yes, the frame is still there.
her heart whispers, disguising the ache,
as tears fall anyway, and she kneels.
her fingers feel the long-shattered glass
beneath the trembling acheglass,
holding the wedding photo tight,
lightly, in its sickened frame,
oh dear, what a sight.

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