Fair Weather Whispers

A cigarette burns in the ash tray, a relic of the time we've spent, on another restless wasted day. A heart not broken, just slightly bent. You're in my heart like you pay rent there, subletting ventricles to your dark desire. The chipped painted walls have eerily been bare, but the hearth fosters a growing fire. A beat up bible by the bedside table, reminds me of your faithful grace. If I am Aesop, you are my fable, a tale told of melancholy, missing with no trace. Spirits that fall like a windswept feather, rising again living only to flutter, on the breezes that follow the fairest weather, like a whisper that only a ghost could have uttered.