Tuesday Morning at Half Past Midnight

Your dress was covered in polka-dots,
the straps hanging loosely from your shoulders,
as I stood in the doorway with the light
from outside splintered across
my solemn face.

Your eyes were deep encased with
black rings from the make up you had
worn. You hadn’t expected the tears,
although we both might have known.

I didn’t know what to say
as I watched you
draped on the bed,
the epitome of sorrow.

And instead of holding you hair back
and kissing your forehead, as I
should; instead of holding your shoulders
and asking what went wrong,

I walked off to the rest of this lonely house
and left your tears with you
and my fears with me.


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