In the depth of my being,
Is a corner.
Is a tip
Is a smidgen, a parcel,
An incomplete sigh.

I know not how to restore it,
How to keep unexpressed and soundless
Such an inexorable thrust of sentiments
From this incessant and silent void,
Without you.

For those I hold closest could satiate to contentment,
Ineffable moments could spark such elation.
The sun could magnify its embracing rays
As the rain tenderly offers its subtle succor.
To simply be alive and existent is dearer than all.

Strange, though, that cannot feel enough.
Strange that the bit of emptiness can swell,
Can amplify from its corner to echo itself
Into even the most skimming of encounters.

There is none other whisper
That has revealed itself
So piercingly
And irrepressibly
As the absence
Of you.