Like a hefty gale that ever flees forward, her absence filled my heart with grief, and seemed to clog the mechanical works within. My tears were such, that I could with a fraction brim the mains' worth.
Like a bird, she flew forthwith from the nest in my heart, as though instead it were within a cage she was fettered, and left nothing but a feather, a feather that spoke silently with its colors: a silence that filled the void silence around.
As bees drone in spring, so did the remnants of her voice sound still, and the honey that it produced, perennial and eternal, was drained. Delusion stopped the harvest early, and took it away. The honey