Am I meant to feel this way,
Empty, hollow, in dismay?
It simply does not make sense,
How can this be providence?

All I see is an image,
A reflection of your visage.
It haunts me while I sleep,
And follows my daily creep.

I want to reach you and touch,
Want to show you just how much,
I'm tormented by this distance,
And yet in this very instance,
I know not who you are,
I know not where you are,
This feeling of being hollow,
It simply does not follow.

Non Sequitur.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Aeguary, in the year 515 AF.