What are we to do now?
Wander from room to room?
Sit in the empty room?
Breathe it in? Memories.
Everything is exhausting now
and nothing is worth doing.
Has the ground become eggshells?
People approach us on tiptoe
and tell us that there are no words.
Then they say some.
They say it must be hell and we tell them
‘Yes, it is.’
Now the only face we picture is hers.
The only voice we hear, hers.
The only room we want to be in, hers.
It is as if she was everything we know and knew
and now we don’t know what to do.
Help Me Stranger