it has been three hundred and thirty six days since I last held your hand.
there is bitterness laced in the tears at nightfall, when solitude arrives in the ghostly chill of a space next to me on a bed too big. I wonder if you understand. what is living when its purpose is dead? what is my breath when it could have been yours?
jagged breaths, sharp and painful. the lungs claw for air in a world too much sad for you. there is a fixed demise and a predetermined length of days I have accepted on with which to accept your passing. forever sounds foolish-
-to the soul that has never loved. at a far point in time, three hundred and thirty seven days ago, that would have been me.
like a whirlwind, you upturned my entire world and left,
and i am in ruin because