Salt crusts the window, refracting the light,
(she'd never clean it, she hated the view)
breaking his promise and dimming her sight.
She left it dirty to hide hopes she knew.
They'd now been apart more than together.
Each hopeless dawn somehow brightened her day,
but fleeting light did not help her weather
and the cold, empty rooms were not okay.
As weeks turned to years it weakened her care,
but she missed the mornings with steaming tea.
So some part endured and she kept her stare
through troubled tides and the mountainous sea.
Inside and out it is crusted with salt
from the waves and the tears which never halt.
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Slightly sad, I can't think of many lost parts except Lucy Gale tales. Where is this supposed to go? There is a lot here, much of it is so dark it startles me to read back over. Where to go from here?
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