Gone

I thought I was prepared.
I should have known.
You weren't the first nor
the last to leave.
I'm bitter,
empty,
lost.
I can't believe
you won't return.
It hurts to be alone.
Again come all the stinging questions,
"Why?"
I've often curse your picture
right out loud.
I thought I saw you once
lost in a crowd.
I've called your name at night
with no reply.
No touch,
no call,
no note,
no sign from you.
It's so unkind,
so painful,
so unfair.
How can you hurt me
when you know I care?
But someday
I'll slip out an exit too.
By this no loss of love
should be construed:
It's just it seems to me
the dead are rude.