I am missing the woman I love.

A friend has lost his son.

My cheeks are sticky from my small sorrow.
I lament not feeling her touch, smelling her hair, tasting her breath alongside mine.

A man has lost his son.

What is the measure of my small grief? Alongside one so large.
Soon I will hear her voice. I will see her face. Know her touch.

Some journeys cannot be made.

What is my gratitude, alongside such absence?

This man tells me that sorrow opens one’s heart to the beauty of living.
Even when the desire to live is lost.

I tell him that his living
is worth the beauty.


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