You asked for a poem, a letter, a sonnet
An ode to the what ifs, the what is, the what more
As if the simple action of touching pen to paper
Could somehow suffice for touching me to you
To spill the words, the last looks, the secrets
Of love, of the life they lived as birds of paradise
Those wild birds, like the phoenix
Their time burned out in bright hot flame
And they became and became
Those birds, those flowers, those flames
That gave life from the ashes of Pompeii and Vesuvius
And new passion for the glory of living
To merge your soul, my rhythm, their sound
And this ink that flows from this pen
That flows from this hand
That this paper should capture them,
Capture us
In black stain
As we stumble through a lifetime
Is, if I may say, life's only impossibility