The damp earth moulded you,
two souls side by side like produce
in an aisle,
roasting Easter lamb above our heads.
There they are, she says.
It is when the coffin settles, the sculpted wood
the mud dries on our boots,
the alarm clock rings,
then life grabs you.
Nothing stands still but the tulips
on my table. Days and hours
mingle like strangers at a party,
a place you get lost in. Moments
when nothing is relevant anymore.
It hits you again, slaps you, whispers in your ear:
you’ll never laugh again the same way as you
did with him
the joke seems stale now. Dry on your lips.
heavy on your heart. But you say it
you continue to say it. Believe in it.
No crowd roaring as the list
of the dead keeps growing
like our needs.
Still how your beauty wakes me
turns my pain into poetry
my Good Friday into symmetry.
I will always write
do not worry your beautiful mind
about me. I am as you say
drinking Metaxa with too much glee
creating words you will never see.
just another poem about death
hashtag death, make it concrete,
or damp like the earth
or kill the spirit
with the typewriter
but oh, how the clicking sound
lifts my soul
closer to yours.
I wiped my boots
ready to write poems.