Supine
On the floor
Of an unfinished treehouse

I stare into
The glow
Of a Wednesday
Morning.

My sketch pad
And a few
Unfinished books
Scattered around me
Some are fiction
Others not.

I stare into the
The ever lightening
Sky, searching
For inspiration.

She took that with
Her.

I lost a sense of
What beauty is
When I no
Longer woke to
Her eyes.

Poems and sketches sit
half finished
And I lie half
-- of what I was.

In a world that
Has such a complete
Understanding
Of every
Morning
Breath.