The weight of your absence causes the worst decay a heart has ever endured. Your eyes that once enchanted mine now face another direction. The artist feels the deepest. The artist lives and dies at least 57 times a day. The artist sits alone and writes on the corner table of a hole-in-the-wall sushi restaurant. She pours her own hot sake that burns the same throat which once swallowed your seasoning. It’s a ridiculous waste of time to spend time dwelling and destroying self. No one is worth that rhythm of damage. The artist wants to learn to hate but she is cursed with love. Poor little songbird. She will spend her days singing for the sun when it is the moon who hears her lament.