“All this time I’ve wasted has caught up to me,”
he says to himself as he faces a blank screen.
He still has on his work clothes that he wants to burn.
His wife adorns the house in seasonal decor.
The heater drones, and his wife exclaims softly,
“Vincent, the clock ticks on its own, and you’re home.”
Vincent pulls his lip to the side and then chides,
“The clock needs batteries; mine’s drained on its own.”
“Will you run away from me?” Vincent utters.
“Are you hungry?” his wife asks through her laughter.
A chicken bakes in the oven, and the smell stains
the walls with thyme. His wife whistles. Vincent stills.
“Miranda, if we had never met,” he says, quelled,
“Would you have married someone else instead?”
Miranda looks at her left hand for a spell.
“I suppose I would.” She returns to the wreath.
If they spent centuries in the living room,
Miranda would still whistle the same dry tune.
If they spent centuries in the living room,
Vincent would still believe it was gone too soon.