I am a work of fiction.
I am alone.
I am dealt. Or spent.
I am heavy breaded.
I am glass such thin transparent glass such visibility.
I am not.
I am without withall with out.
I am nothing to you I am sad I am lost.
You are gone. The death of a river. The depth of an ocean. (the loud river, the silent ocean).

You are gone. More, have disappeared. Moved apartments, changed your life all within 3 weeks. As if it was planned that way. As if my heart my head my body means nothing to you. Three years. And, gone. How will I ever recover from such emptiness. The shock of it.