I’m always borrowing grief, a cup of sugar.
This is the neighbor’s grief not mine;
the neighbor’s cup. Let me take that sure
walk through the rocky meadow down
to the place next door and return it.
I've not seen you in so long. What
should it matter that you are gone?
It is not like I’ll need to fill up the space
left by your absence from my day.
I can’t say when last we spoke or met.
Yet, the loss of you is keen and bitter
as some bad root that no amount
of sugar will temper. It burns into me.