Absence

As I open my eyes the morning scurries about
gaining purchase in all of my senses
from the blatant light spilling through the window,
and the chill clinging to the edges of the night before

And I’ve already been thinking a lot
about holes, the empirical shape of loss,
and how they relate to grief

In the realm of my sorrow these shapes
aren’t ruled by the laws of physics.
Sometimes the holes visit me as colors,
often red and angry at the thievery

The worst color is grey, the most forlorn of colors
because I can’t see hope beyond the slate-colored chasm

Sometimes the holes come to me in my dreams
as desperate, chimeric shapes smashing into my nights!

Grief never stops filling your absence with voids.
It’s inevitable, I’ve learned. But when time and I allow a forgiveness of the pain
the holes become smaller, but they do not go away - far from that!
Their colors transform too, becoming less brilliant
across the wounded hues of crimson, ash and blue