I'd keep you here
within my arms
if death hadn't stole you;
I would tell you
all the things
that I left too late
to say.

Some nights
I go through it all
scene by scene,
episode by episode,
right down
to the flimsy
wire of death
and your final breath.

Some days it seems
so unreal,
as if you
were here still,
that it was all
some weird nightmare
of gigantic proportions,
but I know it's real
and you're not
here still.

Now and then,
I feel the rise
of panic
as the reality
of your death
sinks in,
reaching right down
to my core,
throwing up
the question:
what for?

I miss your
quiet humour,
your dry wit;
that depth of character
unfolding bit by bit,
layer after layer;
your stoic way
and stance,
taking things in hand,
leaving nothing
to chance.

Now you're not here
(some other
place maybe)
the place you
once filled
is vacant
like a desert waste
or vast sea off shore,
and rings out
the question:
what for?