Still, born

I read the lines she wrote, he wrote.
Cryptic clues to her mind.
Splotches of black and scarlet,
Things that made her laugh.

His smelt of petrichor, no rain where he is now.
Pictures of his mother’s land, father’s land.
Clouds, wind, his words.
Stopping short of soaked sadness.

Sipping coffee on a wood chair, yellow light,
Shoes zig-zag by the door.
Words, sounds, pictures,
Make away with the comfort.

Icy cold fingers, crack one by one
Borrowing warmth from an orange mug.
With an inelegant, clack-ophony – backspace, enter, delete.
It tumbled out – still, born.