You turned like a blade in the loom,
sharp where once you reached.
I cannot fault you for the severing -
only mourn the thread we'd barely stitched.

He left.
And in his silence,
you vanished, too.

Not lost.
Just gone.
And I miss you all the same.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 6th of Sapiarch, in the year 13 AC.