I suppose you were sent
to inspire sadness,
to make sure I felt
the full extent of the weight.

And you an innocent agent,
never understanding the burden
of what you meant to me.

Only when the work was finished
did I understand what the work meant.
What energy had gone into it.

Early love was squandered.
This hopeless love made art.

And you'll just have to live in it.
And I'll just have to go on
living without you.