She smiled to an empty room.
The scent of polish clung to photographs,
Gaps of shelf, the television stand.
She never did lift the candles and
As for the books, there were far too many.
How long would it take to dust each one?
Hours, perhaps, and anyway,
Who can know if it’s hidden, if the
Space beneath the lampshade
Remains untouched. Others will
Smell the polish, see the smile
And believe that the blush of cheekbone
Was never faked. All the while
The stubbornness of fingertips
Refusing to do more than they wish.
~ S L. James