AN: I never thought I would write a post-Twilight, non-AU fic, much less a poem. Well. I had to get it out of my system. Thanks for all your support! Feedback is much appreciated :))
To Kate
He' s loved and lost and lost and loved
and lost, and lost.
It's not a weakness, it's his pain. He has the right
to nurture it, hold it close – then add some blame on top.
(He hasn't realized it yet; it's not his fault.)
On top of the building, she vanished.
Time flickered – like light – one, two, gone.
(He wonders if it's of any help they were closer to the sky there.)
His grief is different every time. Almost like
walking with a blindfold on; you cross some roads
you've never walked upon. Now, he is folding into himself,
a human pretzel, the heart mistaken for a limb.
(He wishes he knew it was coming. He could have saved her.)
He's numb, yet he awaits the tick-tick-BOOM of loss,
accepted. For now, he tests his memory,
glancing over her desk – it is still Kate's desk – to find
a vacant spot. Oh, wait – she's gone.
(He thinks it's better to keep doing it. He doesn't want to replace her.)
It's the little reminders that orchestrate a stampede
over his chest, plucking his ribs with cruel
precision.
(He needs to start keeping tabs on the things that remind him of her.)
Today, it's her sketchbook. A page, a sketch, another one –
it's done! More, he needs more, more of her to hold on to.
(He wanted her life to be a Russian novel. It ended up being a limerick.)
He cradles the back of his neck and waits for tomorrow.