Your face is ornate marble as I gently touch it
wiping away your teared streak of mascara
altering the perfect contour from a black line
“what is it?” I uttered with a soft tone of love
you replying with a cold stare not fine
“I cannot do this anymore”
words of torture expected one day! but not
urging a prompt to her thoughts of rot
“our time is regretfully; wasting a start”
“I cannot reply; where lies my heart”
a thunder erupts within my brain
thumping as hurt again and again
life at that moment, destroys what is good
a sickness inside though somehow, understood
packing a bag, walking out of my life
thus leaving me coldly with a
troublesome wife.
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