you are getting good at this, making homes out of lipstick marks and its full-lipped smile while trying
to fill your palms with poetic phrases to save this, except the words have faded, some of them lost in
the distance, some in translation, and some you whispered to the ladybird sitting on your finger.
oh sweet summer child,
who here has seen an Always?
you are not just any other page in a poetry book,
you are the paper on which Whitman described
what it feels like to die, you are not just any other star in the sky, you are the sky, a sculpted sky
dipped in the soft colored hues of sunset, holding your beloved moon at nights, and letting it go in
the morning, you are spring, a garden always awaits your arrival.
you are a fable drowning in an ocean, stay
push your body onto the surface, stay
this paragraph was to be buried like Caesar’s stabbed corpse, but it found its place like a metaphor in
your love poems that lost its rhyme, you are the bookmark kept somewhere inside the words of
Bukowski, reading them, breathing them.
you do what you can to lock up your home,
but do not let the sunflowers wither,
you do what you can to shut remembrance,
but do not unlearn my name.
from reading you to you becoming
a stimulus to write, a muse as they say,
this is how you will be remembered,
this is how you will be forgotten.