I woke again to the emptiness

The sorrow that greeted me every dawn

I'd go to bed late to miss this

Your face staring out from the frame

How does one run from loss?

I ran to pages, to the pen in my hand

I ran to writing in the empty house

I ran to words, empty as I am

One day, I'd write you back to me

When I write, I am free;

I am the pen, the ink

The words, and I think

When I write, and am free

I am no longer empty.