loss bears the face of a disembodied lover's hover, ever present like a mid-december shiver, as it slithers from the past into the conscious, ever present, with its alchemy transmuting honeyed memory to bitter expectation not fulfilled, not in the future, never present. it embodies the voice, disjointed, of doubt anointed with silence in the name of love when silence is stripped, and takes your hand in the silver glow of soft moonlight, like cassandra, to the gramophonic music of the noise of thoughts so thick you could hear a pin drop. loss takes the shape of a hollow in time. in a field of perpetual possibility, loss is the absence, the sixty-foot veil between man and deification. through the darkness of futures past footfalls echo in the memory steadily receding past the circle o' sycamore trees into the violent silence that devastates a feeled field into a patch of grass, barren, with the vague awareness that the loss of love is nothing nothing compared to the loss of life.