A Ravenclaw's Blue Christmas

She hesitates at the handle of her closet,
knowing what lies behind the wooden door,
but she pushes aside the doubt,
pushes aside the coursing guilt
and clasps the metal handle with
determination.

The door swings open with a hush,
with a hush that suffocates
the air she breathes, and she falls,
crumples to her weary knees.
With one glance, misery finds a host,
consuming her soul, and she succumbs,
lets the tears cascade down her cheeks,
down her raven hair,
spilling onto the robes hastily cast
into her closet.

They lie upon the ground, still gossamer
and shiny from last Christmas, but
the dust has started to eat away
at the fabric,
has eaten away at the memories,
at the velvet blue corsage he'd
pinned himself.

She fingers a sleeve, remembering his
gentle touch, remembering
whispered words, whispered promises.
His laugh, his smile, his eyes...
She remembers those gray eyes,
wide open in stark terror,
that haunt her thoughts all day into
the dark and troubled night.

She closes the door ever so slowly,
but she cannot stop the sound
that echoes into the ether as it shuts,
shuts with a finality that locks
onto her heart and will not fade.

And there the wooden door stands
that she dare not open again.