Salt and Tie

By VB Bonny

A shelf that lost herself.

The cup of lies I drank,

with our stories just blank pages asserting themselves.

He was a man of honour,

always dressed in a suit,

embellished with a neatly pressed tie.

Today, the sky whispered sighs.

The winters no longer felt cold.

His eyes once searched for youth,

but the seasons grew old,

and so did mine.

When the clock refused to eat the pain,

its tired hands pointed at eight.

The moon always called me spring

one who could alleviate

the cold, the frost,

and whose fragile fingers,

curling around his wrist,

told him to pause,

to wait.

The dawn watched

as he packed his bags.

This story of us

was more than riches to rags.

One last time,

I adjusted his tie.

The evening whispered goodbye.

I closed the door,

and sat on my chair

with salty eyes.

By VB Bonny