picked up the large book
open to your notes
future months
ending in April
your spiky handwriting

my name with things
I asked for, promised, cajoled
your voice, your smile,
I’m sobbing, for no reason
other than I miss you

I hug the book,
your voice, your smile,
still missing,
my days and nights so full
I can forgo the hours

of contemplation-
mourning is a constant litany
no longer
interspersed with anger
that you left

but rather
a silent wondering state,
anoxia, punctuated by tears
there isn’t enough fuel in air,
or food, or water that I drink…

I simply, merely, miss you