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.