I have nothing to give you, and nothing
on a piece of paper will help except that
having lost everything, you have
less than nothing, so maybe nothing
is something, maybe nothing is enough.

I am so sorry for your loss. I am so sad.
I think of you so often. I send you love.
I send you my prayers and my thoughts.
I, I, I,
I have this compulsion to make it about me.
One time I grieved so hard for a man
I barely knew, it took me years
to write the widow and that letter
was, like this current moment, about me.

Love from a distance and tokens and prayers
and kind thoughts on paper and strong wishes
every time you cross my mind, which is a lot.
As you continue to do the math of all you’ve lost
the complicated math, the algebra, the calculus
(the problems of death are exponential,
the remainders don’t fit anywhere), just add
this in somewhere, this nothing. It isn’t nothing
exactly, but it’s not enough. It’s nothing much.