Three days into my grief, I find it –

a poem.  You felt it important to

copy out in your notebook, small

curling letters, red pen.  It spoke

of love and loss, and the ghosts

which remain at the end of a life.

About memories of fullness and

joy and the void left when

those things are gone.  It ached

with loneliness.  Too late,

I understood what you meant

when you told me you were fine.