The-Writers-Study

She never came home – not that night, nor the next; and now weeks have passed and here I am, still waiting. She never came home, and sometimes I wonder if somehow it was my fault, that maybe I could have stopped her. Maybe I could have said something, anything, to let her know how much I loved her. How much I still love her – but how can I tell her something now? She’s gone. She never came home – and a piece of me left with her that night, when she disappeared. I will never get that piece back, but I fill it with everything I can: music, art, friends and family. I shove it all into that hole in my heart