The grief would be too large.

I would scream around our routines
begging for release.  
I would look upon our food,
the places we would eat,
a hovel shat in by beasts of fields
once walked in and enjoyed,
now ran through and hated
with the ferocity of feet cut on discarded glass.  

A blind charge, stumbling, straight into light
once charming, now burning.  Our sun and star
now sad fire chewing away on memories,
spitting out seeds it can not erase.  

I am here
And You were
here.  

The grief would be too large.