Poetry (for night practice)

I have her brush still. She left it here.

With it she would comb her golden hair

and tilt her head back, smiling,

it would rattle

gently, rattle.

The noise would echo around the room.

I think of it now as the sun comes through her window

and lights up the wall where she once pinned her photos

the sun travels across the room and I sit and watch where her table and mirror were once.

She is gone now

but still I sit and rattle her brush

and think, and dream. I wonder with what does she comb her hair now?

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