You're gone and yet I keep finding vestiges of you.
As I sift through the pieces of my disorganized life, stuffed in cabinets and squirreled away in drawers, I find what I have folded away for the sake of myself.
Signs of your short struggle in the world are everywhere. I cannot turn but for to find some remnant of our hope for you.
You were sick, and we were so enamored with hope it made us sick. For just a few passing years we held you in our arms, our lives.
And yet every day you got sicker, and we are now left only with broken dreams and the scars you left on us.
How strange that I bear a scar; you bit me once, in your fear and suffering. How funny that I carry this mark of you and yet you are dust in the ground. A legacy of scarred flesh.
Life is short and cruel, and yet all the worse for those who live long, forced to stare at the reminders of those they have foolishly loved and lost.