You showed me to create life from dirt,
how to hear the Earth's heart beat
and how to devour life in every breath.

Its been a year since I saw you last.

Cold and lifeless on a table.

The reaper was waiting for you to leave us,
waiting in the fake grotesque comfort of a cafeteria
for you to join him again.

You avoided his company for ten years.
Deteriorating slowly.
Laughs fading into the creases of your skin.
He dimmed the lights in your eyes
slowly,
so we could watch.

I remember you in flowers.
And coriander,
and crushed mustard seeds,
and by the mini liquor bottles you collected.

I remember you in car journeys,
and in stories.
In the walls of the house you built
out of blood
sweat
and hustle.

I remember your lessons
and the jokes
and the blue clouds of smoke
that separated us then
and now.

I remember your fables,
the guiltless line of where to go,
and how you showed me to not be afraid of the dark.

I'll carry your fire and perforation,
I'll carry your name and nationality,
I'll carry your pride and persistence,

with everything left in me.