The Window To The Soul

They adorned the wall, a cacophony of colours and textures. Wool, blue, leather, brown. All hung up in pairs, apart from the singular grey one which rested upon the black marble, challenging my belief that you need another half –a better half- to be complete.
You used to tell me that my eccentricities and quirks made me who I was, but you were only convincing yourself before you gave up, before you came to the conclusion that I was obsessive and couldn’t let the past stay in the past. I asked you before you left me if you would do me one last favour, give me a symbol of our short-lived relationship. But you weren’t like the rest of them, you gave me just the one glove and told me you’d always keep the other. You didn’t want to be another woman who entered and then left my life with a love we believed would be eternal but ended up being ephemeral.
They say eyes are the windows to the soul, but I always believed it was the hands. They were the mark of an artist and a sculptor. You didn’t agree; to you, gloves were gloves. To me, they were a memoir of the hands I once held, but you were haunted by the constant reminder of them whenever I took you to my bedroom.