The white shoe;
It lay there lifeless
on its side, upon the step.

It was scratched, and
the heel was missing,
broken off.

Reminiscent of everything else lost;
a body,
with nothing to support it.

That broken white shoe must have sat there
overnight,
as the bruises developed.

I don't remember details,
events or words,
or what the bruises looked like the next morning.

I don't remember who moved the broken shoe,
took it away and disposed of it,
but then it was gone.

Its partner sat in the wardrobe
after that,
with the other shoes.

Why did she keep the other one?
Why did she keep one shoe,
whose partner had been broken?

The image of that white shoe without its heel,
lying lifeless and still,
comes to mind sometimes.

And it still haunts me now.