Have you asked yourself
why you hold 
that which is gone
if it’s gone
it isn’t real
at least 
not to you
but you hold on
knuckles white 
like you’ve been bled 
halfway to death
as white as
the sleeping moon
you’re missing
the truth like the moon
misses the 
singing wolf 
why don’t you
bite the hand 
that bleeds you
but you’re occupied
picking up broken pieces
searching the globe
for what you
lost
if you find the strewn bits
your hands will be
in pieces
the memories will
have faded with a
harsh stain
an allusion on your eyelids
when you blink
don’t let
your eyes
stop having sight
because you looked
too long
for what is
gone