Loss is a very real thing,
A figure, dark silhouette, in the waking hours of dawn, sleep still clouding your vision.
It stands at the foot of your bed,
An intruder, not wanted, but not unexpected.
It invokes anger, grief until it consumes you.
For once, it is good to feel something other than empty.
[did you leave me]
The lack of purpose behind the absence stings like blood eternally drawn from vein, losing a part of your essence with every beat.
You wrap your hands around its throat, feeling its cool smooth skin, and squeeze.
You try to make it understand the shattering, the waiting, the despair.
But it is just an apparition, vanishing before your eyes,
leaving a sour taste in your mouth that promises of next time.