wasted librettos float through white sheets hung out yesteryear to dry
her pain begins behind dour cheeks and strikes notes off pages
lonely tears no longer owning a tributary are sent away to lament and die

on her way home, she passes a graveyard for spellbound weeping willows
porcelain pores ache to be heard, open still awaiting his touches
lemongrass and musk smells fill the silent room as she lay across pillows

candles melted, wax leaving lines of memories on their bedside table, gone
breathing in traces of the last time their sacred love was shared
blowing dust off his old turntable, now naked she drank, playing their song

gazing out the windows she no longer recognized, she felt she was in a play
must I wait to die before I see my husband sit there again, laughing
studying the melancholy room…