The most tragic losses aren't the ones that come with fanfare, with reason and justification to grieve, to seek retribution, to go mad and reject the truth.
No, the most tragic losses are the ordinary ones.
Painfully ordinary, they are.
No death, or suffering, or clear cut blame to lay.
Just the rending of a heart, in silence, in stillness, in slow motion.
The most tragic losses don't burst upon you, no, they step, carefully, meekly, into the room, and steal all the oxygen and light from it utterly, and excruciatingly slowly.
They eat away at their subjects.
They ****, but leave no trail, no evidence to pile up and charge against...anyone.
One day, they have simply taken over, become everything, choked all else of its life and beauty.
One day they are just all that is there anymore.

Ever catch a glimpse of an old man's eyes, and see something hollow there?
That is the most tragic loss.
It sits and stares into him, and he sees not your looking, nor anything else.
He sees nothing beyond what has settled before him, that bores into his soul, that clutches cold clawed fingers around his heart
Not suddenly, not shockingly, but tighter by an infinitesimal amount each day over rolling years like waves.
It doesn't have a face,
Doesn't have a name list or a deposition of grievances.
It is beyond definition. We only see its reflection, there, in his eyes, as it holds him.
It exists so completely that it doesn't, except in its image mirrored in a human heart.
That is loss, of the worst kind.
The kind that is forgotten, unmentioned, unimportant.
The kind that consumes lives and evinces hollowness.
It gives no permission to be destroyed, no right to fall apart,
And yet we crumble before it, day by day, into our morning cereal.
And bite by bite,
Our ashes taste like living.