Where did you go?

Where did you go?
A simple shell abandoned,
Your soul's schism from it's home,
sent into the dark unknown.
Answers are like opinions:
everybody has one and they're
all probably wrong, yet I'm
still searching.

Because of this, I cannot relegate
him to the past tense. He is not a was,
but an is, an idea perhaps, a concept
I've clung to since. None of this makes
sense, but emotion never seems to
piece itself together into a coherent
statement of eloquence. Where words
fail, I feel.

I would think that I'd feel IT, though,
as a loved one's tugged
from his mortal throne, and yet,
alas, it was not so. Curiously
I still feel HIM, like the soft blow of
the wind against my skin, like the
glow of the sun. Because I'm feeling I know
that the healing has begun.