Death reduced you into an idea.
Ideas are noble; they’re closer to God.

You grew on me,
a beautiful thought that refuses to conclude.

Like pollen,
you flutter in brisk sunsets
to settle on me and reproduce uncontrollably,
an overflow of possibilities.
I hold you under my skin
between delicate pockets left untouched.

But as soon as you enlarge,
manifesting symptoms of life,
I retrieve.

Fruits are destined to be crushed between clenched teeth
or rot in their own bitterness.

I learnt to find beauty in absence, in ephemeral breeze.
How else can I tolerate your loss?

But I can no longer find it elsewhere.
Life is too unfamiliar.
Life is too threatening.