Pre-dawn whispers, a rumpled landscape of sheets where her warmth should linger. The house, a cathedral of quiet, Devoid of the sizzle, and clanking of pans, that usually heralded the start of their day.

Sunlight, a thief breaching the blinds, Stretches across the battlefield of the kitchen table. The scent of perfume lingers on the air, A folded parchment, a white flag of surrender, Amidst the golden glow of morning light.

The folded paper lies like a wounded bird, It’s edges, creased and fragile. He shuffles closer, a marionette with grief for strings, and unfolds the stark landscape of their ending.

Tears, a relentless tide, rise from a well of shattered vows. He imagines the house crumbling, Cracking like his heart, He glances out the window, Framed by Lacey curtains, At a world that is indifferent to his pain.

He wonders if he, like the sun, will rise again , But for now, He crumples, A fallen warrior amidst the wreckage of a love that once bloomed in this sun-dappled room.