I often write when I think of you.
Amid the notes and to do lists
scribbles of ink form
pictures on paper,
disjointed words and phrases paired
with drawings and figures that make no sense
to an outsider.
Capturing these thoughts is hard now.
Or, to be honest, harder than it was before.
Thoughts spin so fast that
sometimes I can merely feel.
It all seems silly and childish --
this strange loss.
you're not lost --
you're just not here.