She left her mark,
the ghost of her love
flitting between the trampled garden,
shattered crockery
and broken bedpost.
Sometimes, the weaker side of his soul
longs for her
when the songbirds at dawn
sing with the hollow echo of loneliness.
Memories of their wild abandoned
love-making fill his being,
swelling his heart,
deluding him with false hope,
until they pour out and evaporate
where her betrayal had cut him
like an assassin’s knife.
She left her mark,
but he considers calling her,
again.
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