My Darling, Rose Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

Her clothes hang in the closet.
The room smells of her perfume.
Their bed is dressed with pillows
of antique lace, some heirloom.
The walls are painted eggshell.
Windows are draped floral green,
and a strand of cultured pearls
lays in silence and unseen.

His hat hangs from the bedpost.
Her slippers wait on the floor.
Silence echoes a sad truth
from behind that bedroom door.
He sleeps with her memory,
but his soul can never rest.
She was all he ever loved,
and he loved the very best.

She left him in December
when he woke to find her dead,
and he wept as he held her
and cradled her precious head.
Her lips were lavender blue
like periwinkle in spring,
and her skin was winter's ash
or a shadow whispering.

He held her there for hours,
could not bear to let her go,
just one more chance, one moment,
and one lifetime more to go.
She was his very best friend,
his companion, and his wife.
She was more than a partner.
She was the wellspring of life.

His clothes hang in the closet.
The room smells of aftershave.
He wore his hat this morning
to visit her at the grave.
He left a fragrant bouquet,
one last gift of love he chose,
then closed his eyes and whispered,
"Here I come, my darling, Rose."