Dbee Robinson Artist - The Fat Struggling Menopausal Artist

  I walk through rooms that still breathe your name, quietly, gently, as though nothing has changed. Your dressing gown still hangs on the back of the bathroom door, soft with the memory of your shoulders. Your glass sits empty on the kitchen windowsill, as if you’ve only just stepped away. Your plants— I water them with care, with longing, as though they, too, are waiting for your hands. Your camera and your drone stand still, resting in silence, and your guitar hangs on the wall, patient— waiting for fingers that will not return. Your shoes lie unworn in the cupboard, Your tuxedo hangs faithfully in the wardrobe, and in the drawers, your favourite shirts are folded, pressed— ready, just in case we have somehow got this all wrong. Your car waits on the driveway, facing the road, as though it knows we were meant to go somewhere together. And your side of the bed… still empty. The pillow lies untouched, no echo of your head, no warmth left behind. Your train, ...