For the highlights
Of coming days,
Where your face recedes
In the transparent waters,
Where I can falter, upon your cadaver
That the sun has lit, like for two eyes
That will never open.
To the recognition
Of rivers that run backwards
To memories, to claim their origin,
As I can, while tears make their ways
Back to my eyes.
For as I guide my hand
Through the velvet streams
Of bleakest locks over your porcelain cheeks,
I can make music with my cries,
Though a sculpture with my recollections.
I can find your beauty, elsewhere,
Outside the void that your death leaves.
I can wring a world of all its droplets,
As your memory will lead me on.