I cry a soft word, went to the door, saw through the peephole; no one was there.
Next, I picked up the phone, started to dial; it was the wrong number. I dialed again; this time a busy signal.
I danced to our favorite song; there was a scratch in the rhythm.
I polished the album, but scar was permanent.
My dance was over.
The dress was old, the house was cold and the bread had mold.
Where's my handsome honey?
©quaker
Q