She found me.

Little words

When you are gone, there is no bloom nor leaf,
Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds,
And I can only stare and shape my grief
In little words. 
I cannot conjure loveliness to drown
The bitter woe that racks my cords apart;
The weary pen that sets my sorrow down
Feeds at my heart. 
There is no mercy in the shifting year;
No beauty wraps me tenderly about.
I turn to little words - so you, my dear,
Can spell them out. 

-Dorothy Parker