I love your stories,
your bright eyes and lucid dreaming;
your realism, despite believing in more days on your fingers
or a memory that lingers
without having to remember how warm your hands were
before they grew foreign and cold

Every day I watched the sun peak and cower behind concrete jungles,
I have witnessed every color that the sky could offer,
but it grew duller and duller,
and for a moment, my eyes were not any different
compared to the weeping clouds above me

So who was it to blame?
For me to see you die every day;
for you to suffer like a sinner
when you have done anything but
because you are the prettiest flower
pure and iridescent
from past until present
and maybe that’s why you were picked first