The room now languishes in its emptiness, the previously lush colours diminished in my perception to sterile monochromatic tones, punctuated only by her forgotten glass of wine, the sanguine colour of which stretches out across the wooden tabletop like spilt blood upon its surface. The empty space which she had occupied minutes before sings dissonantly in her absence, a painful reminder that what was is now no more- I cannot bear the sight, and look down, away, defiant.

It strikes me all at once that I spread my dreams beneath her feet, and she has tread upon them with muddied shoes, soiled their silken fabric. Cloths I’d woven from the sun and the stars and the moon and my imagination, and which now lay irreverently disregarded.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. The gates of hell? No, upon the bitter cage of love inscribed.

The wine is a harsh souvenir, I consume it.

Peregoth

January 21, 2011 at 8:53 AM PST

Try to hold back on the purple prose. What you have to say is more important than a high-octane vocabulary. Do you mean cloths or clothes? Look up lay/lie and decide which tense you want here. Past participle for tread is trodden. Probably should put quotation marks around the Dante quote.

Consider working the piece into a poem. The last line would work very well as a poem's punchline.