Worse than forever goodbyes in ceremonial
painting over emotion
giving grief a mask.
When they go to dust, these loved ones, he said, pain soon follows them
leaving a memory fondness
and a kind of always love.
This is worse, he said.
No pageant here to hide behind.
No dust to melt the ache.
Just ashes
and a kind of always empty.
Out there somewhere, you see, he said.
She's out there somewhere,
breathing this same air,
doing things.
Probably some of the same things.
Breakfast maybe, with sparkling morning eyes
and hair still tousled from the night.
Just as always, just not here.
Just
out there.
Somewhere.
© WR
