Anne Champion Your death was the illusion of glitter smeared across a lake that vanishes as the sun dips under the horizon, while grief clanged within, subsiding the way ice melts in a glass of vodka: potent, transparent, dissolving clear against clear. I became nocturnal, searching in the crisp coldness of night sky, imagining you were the amnesia inducing warmth I sought to live in as the sun rose and I drifted to sleep. Life was not as...