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.
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,
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.