There is a you-shaped hole in my life,
And nothing I can do to fill it;
She sits as a cardboard cut-out in the room,
Black as space, twinkling critical stars
Studded, blinking in her outline.
A peregrine falcon flies across the sun,
And is gone,
As that sun implodes, turning black
In the fabric of time,
Comets trail-blaze and die out
Beyond the visible frame.
The you-shaped hole just sits with
An eyeless stare, full of emptiness,
Infinite cosmos of useless parallels,
Universes impotent with saturnine debris.
It speaks in volumes of silence,
Wastelands of verbiage,
And in the end as I look
Becomes my own reflection.