The page had long been turned.
It was the imprint left behind on the next that was hard to ignore.
The coffee long had gone cold, and the cup since removed.
It was the patina that stayed behind, much like a reminder in place.
Like all of ‘celebration’, the night too had to end.
Once they all left, only the empty wine glasses stood witness mute.
Crumpled sheets, creased pillows, but the bed had to be made.
It was the faint smell of you left behind that was hard to forget.
It has been said, time and again, time only moved forward
I stay suspended in a moment of feeling, ensconced in a pause.