it’s the little things
the incidental contact
the secret looks
the smell
of her hair
on the pillow
a million
microscopic instances
of her
that make
the gaping void
where she once sat
feel fathomless
in scope
the world
carries
a her shaped hole
that all the light
seems to pour into
leaving nothing
but a blanket
of frigid dark
to hold me
long into
the emptiness
of a new day
bathed
in sorrow
it is
steel wool bedding
for the bared nerves
of anguish
slowly
carving the joy
from a land
suddenly devoid of heat
a homespun noose
around the aorta
of cardiac arrest
a bed of nails
to rest
a weary mind
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
I felt the loss in this like it was skin rubbed raw. It is, magnificent.
“it is steel wool bedding for the bared nerves of anguish”
Found your site from your collab with Tara (whose work I also love). Glad I clicked on that link!
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I am too. Thank you for your kind words and for reading. Tara is one of my favorite people and writing with her before was as easy as dreaming.
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That’s gorgeous, as was the collaboration.
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😥
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