By Zenith Roy
Like a desolate isle sprawls the room,
An open book that sorely misses its reader.
In one corner
Roosts the sun—a shy sliver,
In avid anticipation,
Ready to slip away at any unfamiliar ingress.
Every nook, every crevice
Still warm with the occupant’s touch,
The room breathes a musty melancholy.
The winter day
Slides into climactic gloom,
A chilling absence cloaks the forlorn room.
The self-effacing morning sun,
Now in its plaintive afternoon dotage,
Goes on stealing wobbly peeps—
Won’t he return? Ever?