© Deviant Art
He couldn’t force unwilling feet past the phantom threshold; restrained by echoes.
Even from the doorway, sour bile rose treacherously to his mouth.
Six by four.
The ghostly thoughts of pacing returned to haunt his doubled visions.
Then and now.
Her absent perfume washed his sinuses in lavender.
He had looked only for a quiet armistice, she had sought total victory.
Many shades of memory, colour subsumed.
White walls greyed by time.
He could barely now discern the faded stain, lurid in his mind’s eye.
Red to the floor; pink from the cheeks.
In war there are no victors.