Loss is a thing of beauty.
Anything — a black hole, a wound, yourself — is a thing of beauty if you philosophize it long enough.
As with other beautiful things, loss demands all your attention.
When something, someone, is separated from you, you fixate on that oddly-shaped hole for a while. You stare and stare hard, trying to trace your way back to where you last saw it whole — as if you simply misplaced it, as if you can coax it back home.
As with other beautiful things, the value of loss is often in the mind of the beholder.
You may learn to lock the door twice now. You may start recognizing it in others. You may be drawn to create something with it. You may embrace tighter all that still remains.
And as with other beautiful things, loss is more fleeting than you initially thought.
First it races, then it runs, then it walks, finally it tiptoes quietly — always there, still there, but no longer there — as you eventually move on to the next beautiful things.