It is like a death, this loss of you,
a loss that I do not understand.
Yet this I know:
you love me not.
Your love for me has
shriveled and dried.
Scorched by a hellish sun,
it is desiccated to a gritty dust.
I grasp at the remnant of my dreams,
but they pour through my fingers,
blown by a bitter wind,
irretrievably scattered into the chasm between us.