What remains of you is
the depression you left-
an emptiness that space refuses to crowd.
You remain here unseen- in the scents that linger, the eloquent sheen of dust-
atoms of you.
The mirror- that had absorbed your image daily
but cannot now remember your face- no reflection.
The soul cannot piece itself together- cannot suture with memories the loss of you.
It will forever ache like a phantom limb.
You will live on- in the plaintive cry of a violin- the line of a finely tailored suit.
You will exist as long as I can keep here-
tethered to me.
(Another S.H. Inspired poem. Not sure what's up with change in font - it was unintentional)
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