I remember
you coming around to my house
on your motorbike,
with a kitten.
You were an image
of yourself:
nineteen, a canvas sketched in,
waiting for bold strokes
from a palette as vibrant as fireworks.
And of course
you were shortlived like a rocket,
lighting up our upturned faces as you expired,
leaving us as empty
as a milkbottle, earthbound.