Suburban Decay

The hole in the air,

pried into existence by the scraping silence,

is all that remains of you.

I exhale warm smoke into the cool air,

giving you a surface,

on which you cast your final shadow.

Memories flow like wine,

as we feast on nostalgia.

Tonight you sang a serenade for only me to hear,

And somehow in death,

we become closer.

Your image dissipates into the wind, 

and Reality draws us back to his realm.

I must return to what remains,

to all you left behind.

-Rob Padfield