Her Figure in the Settee

I still can see her figure,

Where she once laid down,

On the Rosewood settee

Now silent and empty.

The walls of our old place,

Keep marks of our life.

Her presence lingering,

In our vacant home.

I close my eyes, and see her hair,

Resting on the caned seat,

Her curves resembling the delicate

Lines of the Rosewood.

The room misses her laugh,

As I do too.

The settee misses her warmth,

I miss her words.

The settee and I stand, barely,

 In the abyss of her absence.