Your life here

with me

was like a poem.

One classic beginning

filled

with a terrifying beauty.

One classically ending,

just like that,

with a guttural, tangible pain.

Oh!

Your story had barely been written,

barely been given breath

to its words.

In the womb

you lived.

In the womb

you died.

I loved you,

before you,

my darling poem,

were written.

I love you still,

after you,

my darling poem,

had so much left to be written.