That night you breathed; by day you’d gone;
And afterwards, a veil was drawn
That hid the things you said I’d see:
your solemn promise made to me
that guaranteed you’d still be there.
And in your place a lifeless void:
clawed corners of a Polaroid
The pen you used. Your chair.

Yet later, from those deadened days
a soul arose, in shapeless ways
I can’t describe, just a knowing
more than life recalled. A growing
solace from your thoughts coming through;
transferred in some clandestine way
to tell me what you'd think, or say –
the central part of you.

You are not here, yet have not gone
in some respects. Reflecting on
the things you did – I do them too.
And when it’s said I'm just like you,
in casual chatter, it sounds right.
It comforts, until grief steals in 
and absence cuts bone-deep again
to wound me in the night.