Without my soul

I am but a shell

My walls still stand, strong though old, having weathered the storms and harsh sun.

My roof still provides shelter though my soul may no longer rest within these walls. Half of my heart still beats though it is no longer found within me.

And even as I provide warmth and a safe space for her head, she shreds the little that if left. Purging what remains from me while clawing and hoarding, greedily grasping.

My bones groan, watching my memories be ripped from me. Piece after piece. Taken. Replaced.

Where once the little one would lie her head, now a different lounge. No longer soft and warm with the glow of evenings watching the tennis, ballroom dancing, Hyacinth Bucket and Victor Borg. Laughter and love and joy. Now full yet empty. Different. Frigid. Devoid of anything but selfish want.

I ache with the echos of what has been.

Shudder with the cold which has run down my hallways to chase out the warmth.

These walls which keep the rain from her head and were once full of everything I was are now scarred as each frame is removed. Snatched without gentle care and discarded amongst the boxes and trash.

I still hear that half of my heart beating. Long for it’s return, even if it is only for a moment before both halves are returned to each other. To hold the last breath.

Maybe one day, a new story will unfold and these painful times will be erased. Washed away with the sounds of dishes gently being swished in the sink, giggles and the warmth of love again. Stitched back together with new frames and memories.

Until then what was once a home is now a shell.