I’m bereft at the grief-grey stripe, the immensity of black, how much further I’d have to fall to feel an absence so deep. There’s a young man in a suit observing the painting, motionless, in silence. I sit next to him, too close; as if we were lovers, wanting to spread my fingers over his, tell him how sad I am, how devastated by loss, but I sense he already knows. We are the same static in our fabric; we crackle in parting. He walks towards the slim light of the exit, leaving me as lonely as I’ve ever been.
Julia Ruth Smith is a teacher, mother, and writer of small things. She lives by the sea in Italy. Her poetry and prose can be found in numerous online and print journals. Find Julia on Twitter @JuliaRuthSmith1.