...

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Further to earlier

I've talked about him here, calling him my "relationship other", the man I met in Second Life, three or more years ago. We chatted daily, talked a lot over voice chat. A friendship developed out of a working relationship, then a deep affection. He knew me well, and I him - we talked about joys and problems and we shared our lives, as much as it is possible when one is living in the UK and the other in New York. He made me laugh so much, he shoved me into the limelight of Second Life literary life, tried (unsuccessfully) to teach me some scripting, supported me in everything I wanted to do. I listened to his troubles with his wife and children, helped him chose a mother's day bouquet for his mother. He sent me flowers for my last birthday; I sent him chocolates for Christmas. If things had been different, we might have had a relationship - as it is, we had fun.

He died last night.