Loss curls around him
rubbing against his stubbled cheek
he turns his face to it
and swallows it whole
he feels it circle then settle, heavy
and smooth in his belly
like a stray cat
coming home
inside he is windswept
flapping around the dark pit of absence
bleak as the moors in November
and falling
always falling
This started out as a quadrille (44 words) but I came back to it, fiddled, and added a few more. Now it’s linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where they are hosting an open forum.