bound here in bitter constraint
with certain knowledge of profane loss,
I dredge you this ironic salute:
Those I only know in passing
In your absence
Only in your absence
I am sorry to say, I know your names
And see your pictures, and hear your songs
If I cried out, who would hear me
Can I even heed the echo?
It figures forth the true ordeal
That being here, still, I live still in excess
and hubris
That losing you is enough to lament–
to code a few lines
to feel something real
to see, clearly, error
and to glimpse the path
But not, I’m afraid, to change
