Inside the cottage
Upon the mantlepiece rests an inherited clock, cloak of dust and ornaments.
A pinecone sits alone.
After he lit the fire, we sat on the floor eating supper, drinking wine
Poinsettias gazed warmly at us
but I could still feel the cold from his body
I got up and picked up the wool throw and wrapped it around myself
He gets up too and walks to the mantlepiece
I’ve waited for this moment for so long
During moments alone in the cottage I have been so tempted to take a peak
But it felt like a betrayal
As if I were reading his diary
Finally, he picks it up
his notebook
there are drawings of me
page after page
pencil, charcoal
sketches
of my face, body,
positions in bed
as I slept…
His drawings are achingly beautiful
Weeks later we broke up,
sometime after that I received a parcel
in the post
it was his notebook
haunting me
I kept it on my bookshelf for years and on
lonely winter nights would pick it up and
trace my fingers over the lines he sketched
How could someone who spent so much time
deeply in love with me just suddenly leave?
When the Winter blues came,
I’d open the cream pages and look at myself
A solemn rite
I could not let go of
That November night
I lit the fireplace
It brought back memories of our last Christmas together
This time I did not feel hurt or anger
Just the coldness of the room
So, at long last I did what I should have done all those years ago
I burned your letters, your drawings
and all that I had left of you.
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