Random Leaf #1902 precisely cut

Am I out of grief?

That I, a writer,

have made ink of this fathomless emotion—

is it no more, and am I cured?

I can once more laugh

with the usual tone and pitch,

wear my color again,

and my fake, written mask

is back to its usual shape, size, and shade.

But what am I feeling?

Why am I feeling

that out of nowhere,

my world has grown smaller?

Is it because a door,

once open for me,

has closed?

And a number in my phone

will always ring

and no one will answer—

and one day,

even the ringing will stop.

That familiar voice

of metallic repetition

will respond:

"This number is out of coverage area,"

or

"Sorry, this number is busy now,"

or

"Sorry, this number is unavailable."

Or whatever line

that automated voice replies with.

Nevertheless,

I can only talk to her

and see her

in my memories.

Only...

if

I had gotten more.