The Writers' Circle

The door slammed.

A torn, creased envelope fluttered to the floor
this script had been written for while
for those who chose to see.

Trapped in a box
nowhere to breathe 
one last push
finally released.

He now got the message.

She is gone.

He glimpsed the hall mirror
as darkness descended   
and saw the funeral in his face

no pall bearers to lift those sunken eyes
no public announcements
just a typed note
with four words

Our love has died.


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