You do not look dead. Only quite sleepy.
I think I’ll imagine you a dove, so
you can soar like the bird you were. Maybe
you’ll call. I’ll know you by your golden glow.

You had soft hands and a warm heart, drooping
feathers like a willow weeping. You taught
me birds like to fly in the rain, leaving
their bones behind them. Leaving me distraught.

But you are no longer something with wings.
Six feet underground, cage of wood. A bud
too soon gone cold, sugar-crusted sun clings
to your lips. Without story, without blood.

I loved you, now there’s nothing more to love.
A hole inside of me, shaped like a dove.