Thirteen Weeks
by Simon Freedman
She sat in her room and watched the world pass,
as tears stroked her face and dove into her glass.
Her cold ears were muffled with the silence so dark,
her loneliness stifling, sterile and stark.
Thirteen weeks had passed since her soulmate had met
with his untimely end, as their mountain of debt
had led him to cling to their old carving knife
that, one spray of red later, had ended his life.
Her doctor advised her, You need to move on.
try taking a walk, get out in the sun.
Three months is a long time, and life is too short;
you need no prescription, why not try a new sport?
The people around her now filled her with dread,
too tired to fight, she moved into her bed.
With enough food and water to last her a while,
she shut fast her eyes, and half cracked a smile.
As the world grew all quiet so far up above,
she dreamt herself warm in the arms of her love.
In the underworld timeless where dreams merge with death,
the two of them sleeping and sharing one breath.
Reality stings, and dreams are illusion;
between the two never should there be confusion.
But the neighbours that found her were all wide awake,
the body they buried, they knew was no fake.
Though the coroner could find no sane explanation,
with her soulmate she had shared her last respiration.
For life has no hold on a soul that is wed
with another that rests in the halls of the dead.