Cold Morning Floor

Straight, black hair

hangs over eyes, crystal blue.

Impossibly long lashes,

flick away acrid smoke

of a slim cigarette.

The smoke is a shroud,

become aural and radiant in the light

that filters in

through the thin, white curtains.

 

An picture of concentration,

staring at the week old letter;

read and re-read,

 looking for the hidden cipher.

Trying to decrypt the words;

explain away the heartbreak,

the devastation.

 

Legs, smooth and silky white

flow out of the black bathrobe,

feet shuffling to find escape

from the cold morning floor.

 

This is a morning like any other,

but unlike all that have come before.

The words on the page are swords,

both piercing the heart

and cutting the strings that bound it.

 

Another cloud envelopes her head

and for a second she looks up

and the fear is gone,

replaced by newborn clarity.

Long, delicate fingers

no longer grip the page,

but let it fall,

like a dead leaf

to the floor.

 

The cigarette is crushed out,

in an ashtray overflowing

with dozens of departed kin.

 

Feet find the floor,

no longer timid.

The cold tile is firm and certain.

 

The day promises something,

new and maybe terrifying;

unfettered promises

and new possibilities.

 

Every day of her life,

will start after today.

Those first steps

on the cold morning floor

are the first

on a journey

that is her own.

 

HG – 2016

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