Twenty-two

For the next few weeks
there is going to be
a trace of you
in everything I write.

you, who once owned my
uses of 'heart',
who once belonged on my
repetitions of 'love',

you will be found sitting
on top of the word 'blank'
or playing catch
around the letters in 'sad'

balancing on
'sleeplessness',
exploring the depths of
'void'.