You went back to your pen so quickly
You didn’t shove the books off your desk in anger
You didn’t lose sleep
Or bang your fist on your blank papers in loss of words in absence of muse
You went on writing verse after verse, painted feeling after feeling
You were flooded with my gone-ess
While I, a shattered glass vase; lay redundant on your sill
My myriad pieces dumb; reflecting the rain falling on your window
Perplexing the clouds, I shimmer in the very little sunlight;
in hope I will someday feel.
