Ah, but none of them crave me
They do not feel the loneliness
Of my absence, least not
The way I feel the heaviness of theirs;
They do not crumble beneath it:
The first touch of an inevitable weight
At the nape of their neck
That has always hung
Just above the skin of their scalp
But now, having breached the space between,
Presses vindictively, coldly,
A mercenary of sheer mass

God, the weight;
The weight of this void