The hole...

The hole

You know when somebody goes
really goes, never to be back.
Leaving that lonely space,

a hole they used to fill;

that chair, a corner, a half finished book.
How do you feel about that?
Is that space ever full again?
Does sound come rushing in?
And light and shadow mark the space

where they should and would have been.

I have stood in the spaces that you left.
Felt the shiver of you in the air.
You have left the building they say.
But I choose to see you there.

Are you really dead?

You come - sometimes - when I sleep.

Wandering back into life.

With that shake of your head.

You don’t stay long,

Not there, alive instead,

those times of feeling,

empty spaces, woods and chairs.

Then I find myself considering

that you might not ever have been there.

Except in my head all along,

a figment, imagination, a story not told.

But does any of it really matter 

now that you are gone?