Sometimes only poetry can express that thing inside you which defies all power to vocalise. In this case, WH Auden's Stop All the Clocks:
"He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: 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."
The only difference is that the last line cannot and must not come true. No one has died. Man is not God and false gods shatter: a whole world remains to be loved and lived. That is the challenge. And if this experience teaches me that, then I'm ready to accept it.