It was easy for him to pretend she didn’t exist
having locked her away in a room, the key in his fist.
Still, his curiosity was strong, his needs ringing,
so he’d sit outside the door and listen to her singing.
She sang of hopes and dreams desired for tomorrow.
She sang of the pain and sorrow he need not borrow.
He listened daily while days passed into years.
He listened until his torment threatened tears.
When the years became a decade and became more
not beholding her became a torture he couldn’t endure.
Asking her questions yielded silence beyond,
his lonely voice an empty echo without her song.
When he could endure no more one sleepy November
he thought to crack the door so as to glimpse her.
With a gasp and a tear in a widening eye
he saw the truth before him wasn’t a lie.
All those years the door to her was locked with his key,
but it was he who was within and she who was free.
©January 2016, Christina Anne Hawthorne