A box

Loss forms a sequence

Stroboscopic memories splattered in a white room

For me to decipher and mourn a future

Where the laughs, the tears and intricacies of a thousand intimacies

Would have been yours, mine, ours

But discarded when I would have loved them most

Loss forms a penance

A whip and a torture rack

Where I lay praying that you'd touch me once more

But loss forms an errance

A return to a self untamed

That I am not sure I love but loves me

That can change the shaking in my voice

Into a joyous song

And the knot in my throat

Into a new thread to stich the wound

And share again with you, me, all

An eternal sense of pride

Loss forms an essence

A reminder that who I am is intact

Not in spite of you

But thanks to you