You looked so peaceful in your sleep,
When your dreams were the closest they’ll ever be.
Your fingers only grazed the seams
Of a world filled with endless possibility.

The birds still sing, the rivers still flow-
It seems that nothing stops for no one around here.
Your favourite flower sits on the sill;
It knows, somehow, that the sun is due, at any old time.

Although you left so many of us behind,
You left us with a view and it's a beautiful view.
But it would be better shared, with you.
Nevertheless, it's a beautiful view.

I'll meet you when I close my eyes.
You're not so clear there, but it's the closest that I can be.
I look for answers in the sky,
To questions that burn in the front row of my mind.

The sun still shines, the stars still glow-
It seems that nothing stops for no one, anywhere.
I play your favourite song on repeat;
I can almost hear you singing along, for old times’ sake.

Although you left so many of us behind,
You left us with a view and it's a beautiful view.
But it would be better shared, with you.
Nevertheless, it's a beautiful view.

I wish I’d known that last goodbye
would echo like a final sigh.
Your eyes were quiet, voice unsure—
a silence I chose to ignore.

You didn’t flinch, you didn’t cry,
just turned and left beneath that sky.
If I had known, I’d have begged you to stay,
to steal a few more words that day.

No calls, no texts, not even views,
just empty screens and phantom news.
I hold my phone, then drop it fast—
what’s hope but shadows from the past?

They say move on, that time will heal,
but grief’s not something you can feel
and fix like glass that’s cracked in two.
I’d just have held on tighter—
if only I knew.

That goodbye was forever.

What is grief,  
if not love  
wandering in search of a home?

It lingers in hollow spaces,  
quiet corners of empty rooms,  
whispering to walls  
that no longer echo back.

Grief is love without a pulse—  
a heartbeat still waiting for an answer,  
a name spoken into silence,  
hoping for an echo  
that will never come.

But still,  
I need it to become something.  
To sprout wings  
or take root in the soil—  
to turn into something I can hold:  
a garden,  
a letter,  
a breath.  
Something to name the weight.

Grief is love unbound—  
it spills,  
it seeps,  
it finds the cracks in days and nights,  
asking, always asking:  
Where now?

And yet—  
grief moves.  
It carries yesterday’s tenderness  
into tomorrow’s hands,  
grows roots in memory,  
builds altars from the ache,  
finds its place  
in every sunrise,  
every tear  
that softens the ground.

Grief is love  
that will not rest,  
will not relent.

But one day, I believe—  
it will bloom.

He came from shade but dreamt of sun,
A silent thing with wings too small.
Each morning found him halfway gone—
Each night he broke his quiet fall.

He watched the sky, its golden thread,
And thought it meant to pull him in.
His mother warned, “You’ll end up dead,”
But still he tried, again and again.

He reached, though thinner grew the air,
And stars, he thought, would answer back.
But they just watched him drifting there—
A speck upon a silver track.

She told him once, “It isn’t yours,
That light you chase, it cannot feel.”
But boys don’t hear through closing doors,
They only learn through what won’t heal.

His wings wore down like woven lace,
He rose until the dark turned blue.
The flame, it never knew his face—
But still, he swore its warmth was true.

And when he fell, they called it flight.
He burned, and called the burning love.
No echo followed into night—
Just ash that drifted high above.

The moon the stars and the whole galaxy
A few hours,  A million years, A billion
it warps and changes
it all happens at one
expecting to see the yellow at night
a reflection of irises
A brightness of soul beneath shadows of night

Wondering eyes for stars 
connecting to find strands 
Leo, Lepus, Lynx, Lupus, 
No sextant will find the hue of jade
No eyes will see the forest 
No hands will run through the foliage 

A deathbed shared with a sibling 
and a constellation yet to be discovered