I have heard that those that die live on in the hearts of those they love
What if those hearts whither with that weight?
Hollow. Aching. Raw.
I want to be ready
For smiles. For secrets. For love.
A hand in mine wards away the numb
But it is not the same
Never is.
Your hand is ash now
Laying quiet, a sentinel in your tomb of gray marble
The color of Ohio skies in winter
Cold just the same
I grow weary of sleeping alone
Unable to bring myself to form a permanent fixture

For that empty space next to my bereaved heart
Is yours and no others