What happened to the woman
who had such soft curves? she speculates,
turning from the mirror, ungainly
in her movement, damp hair clinging
to her neck in curlicues.
She rotates the ring that orbits her finger, recalling
the sweet scent of tempestuous love
when their souls co-mingled, his hands drifted
lingeringly along her electrified skin, honey
flowed from his lips to hers.
She is drained by the drama
of their separately joined lives,
the words that ricochet between them.
She longs to be irresistibly desired,
a Muse of passion.
Crumpled memories lie in the depths
of a drawer, occasionally unearthed
to hark back to what once was.
But their exhumations
have become infrequent.
Gazing out the window she watches
rain create miniature craters
in muddy soil while the saffron eyes
of her cat keep intense watch
over each movement she makes.