A stack of unread newspapers
Lay on the coffee table
Alongside an unopened envelope
And a cold cup of coffee

A fire spit and lapped
At the walls of the stone fireplace
A young man was seated before it
In a grand, emerald green armchair
Studying the flames
Which seemed to mimick
The blazing grief in his chest

He had an expressionless,
Stoic look upon his face
But his eyes were murky and dark
A violent commotion
Of passion and turbulent emotion.

There was a woman in the room
Hunched over
Next to the open window
Weeping with a feverish woe
Her head of golden curls
Buried in her hands.

A slur of regrets
And fears are carried out
By the woman's cracking voice
But the words are just sounds
Choked by tears
Of which neither of them
Can fully grasp the meaning of.