I write All I do not know, For the libraries have left me Of their books, Of their words. I am a sentence too late To whisper a farewell in your ear. You came in a moment, To disappear off the clock, As I counted each second backwards. Your breath sails down your throat, Swallowed in every edge, Disdained by every pledge. Your eyes Did not close, for the book, As each chapter was written without much Emotion, I merely set sail upon the pages To be lost in fear and blankness. My uncertainty Became your security. My blue Became your gray. Your eyes Sculpt out demise While death's veil covers you, I cannot be near, though to feel inferior.