Gone Girl

In the quiet of a London suburb,
the kettle sang a weary tune,
she left a tea‑leafed note –
a kiss on an empty bowl –
a whisper in the hallway, “Gone.”

The street was draped in mist,
the tram groaned like tired lungs,
the postman carried a beak‑tipped letter,
and the dogs bared silent teeth.
They searched in alleys where pigeons still perch,
where the nightingale’s song turned soft.

A photo lay on the kitchen counter,
her smile captured in a frame –
a picture of a girl who had rivers of eyes,
blue as a robin’s wing,
yet now her laughter floated past the garden gate.

The language you beg, “Did she really leave?”
It seemed to coat the front doors a cold sheen,
and the windows sagged, reflective glass of memory.
The neighbor in the loft muttered about a “freak elaborate trace,”
but the truth, if it ever lies in the well of ghostly truths, lies still.

In the end, the name goes into the pan that is the archive of hollow stores,
a cautionary tale written in the margins of a book opposite the door.
An entire newsroom doth draft their own recollection, in ink that grows,
a report of a mystery that no one sees—yet all call it Gone.

Hence, you may put a barking blare upon that night,
for gardens hold not secrets but keep the ghosts of all the lost that think.
The youth of that chasing, and that pill you aim to bring a man into a world so grave:
the story of silence around your day‑weak, vs. the stardust that follows them in endless circle.