Come home

There is a coffee stain on the windowsill

where someone has waited anxiously

for someone else to come home.

The streets are quiet and haunted,

no whispers of life left:

most of them sleep with murmurs

and it’s in this darkness, panic can grow.

 

Staring at the call log and unread messages,

begging and praying-

Please. Please come home.

It is unfair to torture the soul so.

Because deep down, it knows,

like the bitter taste of that coffee,

they are never coming home.

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