This Sonnet Has No Name

Withheld from comfort, comfortless I hold
the space between the spaces of the void
that forms below my heart.  My heart is cold,
as cold as if all warmth had been destroyed.
Such entropy of love and life exists
in echoes of the muse who has withdrawn.
And now a single memory persists
which slips into the void: she’s gone; she’s gone.
If comfort could be summoned, I would sigh
the words to draw her back into my space.
If comfort could be found before I die,
I’d die within her comfortable embrace.
The threshold of my universe is crossed
where nothing finds its place and love is lost.

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