Whenever there’s good news
my fingers still do a ten digit dance
just dying to call you, to tell you.
But you are a silhouette on a sun
that has already set on us.
You are rising somewhere else,
lighting the face of your new wife
who both fears & hates me.
Meanwhile I sit in a dark house
filled with all the negative space
where you used to be.
It’s been a year painted black with your absence,
a masterpiece of grief
on a canvas stretched by survival-
Title: The Art of Loss.