It seemed there was always a third person with them.

His presence like a specter just over her shoulder,

in the corner of her eye.

She could ignore it no longer.

She knew she had to see him.

Why had he come?

It would never be the same without her.

Her ghost shadows him at every turn.

His mind never resting,

grasping,

wondering,

where is she now?

It doesn't matter, after all, does it?

She is with him.

The bleakness of the empty, silent mornings.

He was always there these days,

in her dreams,

hidden behind her eyes. 

Waiting quietly for the still moments,

the unsuspecting moments when suddenly 

he was all she could see or smell or hear.

The memory of him was slowly consuming her.

She had left him.

But he had not left her.

The slow drip of the tap, 

the quiet tick of the clock,

each little sound reminding her 

of her aloneness.

Of what she has lost.

What she gave up.

On his wanderings he could not help his mind dissecting everything they had been.

He should have known.

There were times he wondered who she dressed for?

She would take such care to make herself beautiful, 

yet she never cared what he thought.

After everything, 

to come home and find his trusty, cheerful little friend

frozen on the windowsill,

it seemed a blow too cruel.

And a grief clutches him as he takes it tenderly in his hand,

and knowing it is too late, 

he brings into the warmth of his house,

his anguished heart burning in his chest.