I hear your laughter.
Your smell appears where you have never been.
Your beautiful lithe fingers on the keys
Playing, always playing.
The old air still holds the music.
Didn’t you long to say goodbye?
Or did you think it was I who killed you?
Did you blame me for taking
The midnight stars,
The sun sparkling on the surface of a riffle?
Now, while you are an atom in the cosmos,
The wound will not close.
Did you know the cut would never heal?
Is that why you chose that weapon?
Or was it too insignificant even to consider?
(Which is worse?)