A widow's scars cut deep,
and she sighs while her hand rests
on the windowsill whose cold frame
used to seat the lively spouse of the now lonesome girl.

She thinks of him often,
and the mere thought of him
brings to her a sinking reminder
of the gaping divide
between where she lives every day in torment
and where he now resides,
the uncertainty of
such a formidable moat
holding her back. The fact
that she is able to conceive of
these thoughts may very well be entirely by accident,
for if there is no deity and all of civilization indeed
did come about about through the law of complexification, the
serendipity of lucky physics and a self-induced
setting of motion, then she does not know
why all of these factors coincide
to agonize and mock her so.
And then moreover, there is
the question of whether he is even
sentient now; are these spiritually-fed
hopes and consequences of unproven religion true? Have
her genuine petitions initiated a response? Or
is her spouse instead struck by the cruelly indiscriminate wrath
of science and of life, and rendered deaf to her calls?

The widow suffers the greatest, for in her ordeal,
existence and philosophy are unwillingly dragged in,
and it becomes not just a matter of love,
but a matter of questioning everything that one holds true to the self to keep sane.

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