I want to give you a poem
because what can I give you
other than my words
that can find you wherever you are?

But words will not come
at least, not ones that can explain
the grasping of our hands.
words cannot fill the aching in our throats
the holes where you once hid
now are worse than empty
for in these holes there is no lacking
no. these holes are filled
with the what ifs with
solemn souvenirs of times with
you on the tip of the tongue
but
never close enough to touch
you are slipping away
leaving us scared and bound

what world is this that takes
you and leaves us to suffer?
certainly not a benevolent one
and not the jealous one of the stories even

no.
ours is wrathful and cruel
ours is a world abandoned.