That Lady

This chair I'm sitting on belongs to her. I used to lean against her bony legs as she'd massage my hair.

There's a window beside me. A window, vintage as the songs and stories she recited; her favorites when it came to singing me to sleep.

Also the wood, it's texture is reminiscent of the wrinkles I teased her about every time she'd laugh.

The sky is thundering, pouring through the falls like one of her unusual scolds when I'd drop her favorite cutlery.

I'd cry and she'd wipe my tears every single time, all I can do now is to wipe off the drops across the window pane.

Once in a while, she'd take time to dust off the carpet. If only someone would've told her to treat her woes too as dust and brush them off.

The fireplace still smells of age old promises, her reason to stay, her reason to befit this house of colds.

She loved lighting candles, maybe the gleaming flame gave her the warmth no human ever could. For me, the warmth in her wobbling palms was the spark which started the fire in me.

The lamp no more than an antique now had seen it all, shedding light on the pettiest of issues and subtly damping the tangled. Burning on the inside and covering up with the utmost perfection.

There was always, a dreading tick tock which knew it'd end just not everything at once. Time can be hard to cope, when the door slams to a silence that consumes, bit by bit, chunk by chunk.

Like fragrance, she lingers through the flowing air I breathe, as if everything else returns a part of her to me...