Supernova

Gone.

That's what you never know

till someone loved

has died—

that more than sadness,

it's the fact

that they're just gone

that makes the world

feel dark and empty.

You have photographs,

of course—reflections

of a face already fading—

but it's not their face, exactly,

that you miss.

It's the warm and smoky sound

of their laughter;

the firmness of their arm

around your shoulders—

things you knew before

with total certainty

that you would feel

again.

In their absence,

you reach out

for tactile things.

Objects start to form

a constellation, point by point,

giving shape

to nothingness.

A matchbook from

the bar you used to frequent:

corner conversations

lit by candlelight.

A postcard that they sent

from somewhere sun-kissed:

Wish you were here.

Their sweater, left behind

some autumn evening:

you'll wear it till

their scent has finally faded,

the fabric starts to thin,

and—like their memory—

it molds itself

around you.

Then one night,

as you look up

at the thousand long-dead

points of light above,

you understand:

He may be gone,

but—

years and years

from now—

when the photographs

have all gone yellow,

and the sweater

has all but unwound—

A friend may look

at y ou and see,

within the lines

that frame your golden smile,

his starlight—

shining there—

upon your face.