Lonely

Lonely
in a house full of memories
and love, but still lonely
for she's not there.
Even though she fills
all the spaces in between
with her essence,
even though she is there
in the things sounding him--
it just isn't the same.


He is so lonely.
You can hear it
in the words he writes,
in the spaces between
his sentences. Half of him
is missing, every other
heartbeat is still for her.
Just because she's gone now,
the love didn't die.
He loves even still.

Lonely
meals for one, trying
to get excited now when
preparing food--just not
the same as when it was for them,
when they shared them together.
When now they are silent--
echoes of conversations
tainting flavoring.
Always feeling hollow.


Lonely, yes.
But, oh, so fortunate
having had who he had,
having had the rare
and the glorious.
More, having had and
appreciating it all along.
Still, my heart hurts
and I wish I could make him smile.
Wish I lived around the corner.


Lonliness might be
eased even if with
recollections keenly listened to and shared.
No, this poem doesn't rhyme. Emptyness
needs hugs and laughter bursting
from nowhere, filling a hollow,
warming his mind, reminding
that he is still vital and alive.
A writer who needs to write
and preserve the precious.