The worst thing,
Is never the death itself,
It’s always the aftermath,
The realization
That he’s gone,
Forever.

Sometimes,
It isn’t even that,
It’s the sense of loneliness,
That now
You’ll sleep alone,
He’ll never be there again,
Ever.

Occasionally,
It’s the past tense,
Saying ‘was’ instead of ‘is’,
It makes you feel empty,
Like you’ll never be whole again,
Never.

Other times,
It’s thinking of the old times,
Back before things got serious,
Missing them,
Without him,
In the end,
You miss him most,
Always.

But still,
Others will say,
That the worst thing,
Is when it rains,
And you sit in the swing,
Alone.

Yet for me,
It’s none of those,
I say,
The worst thing of all,
Is when I look to the sky at night,
I see one thing,
Stars.