The widow.
Cries not of what was.
But of what could.
In a black sun hat
Whimpers speak of what is pined.
She walks along the cemented blocks.
That are meant to direct one to a bitter ending.
The universal gift given to every life.
Does not appear on her doorstep.
Nor in her mailbox.
Company has surrounded her presence.
And her smile joins theirs in grace.
And it wanders for days upon that withered face.
With flimsy grayed hair.
And thin, diabetic skin that is soft to the touch.
But it does not remain.
For the widow will take her last breath only with herself.
And she will have lived as the right hand man.
One can only strive so long off of the happiness of others.
One can only love themselves for so long.
Without the reasurance of another.
Walk along, my dear widow.
For you have been loved by many.
And I apologize on behalf of every being you have encountered.
You were meant for a lover.
But it seems that tragedy and fear have ridden you of your blessing.
But know, poor widow.
I agnowledge that you deserved that giggling whisper.
That you deserved that smile in your sleep.

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