It's hard to imagine a world without you in it.
The sun still rises.  The day is still filled with seconds, minutes.

Should I not have reprieve rather than be sentenced to grieve?
Why don't I have to tell myself to breathe?

The sun still rises.  I still **** breath.  And, grieve.
There is nothing left but this chiseled granite.

I wish that it were I there decomposing in it, death sublime.
Or perhaps we both could lie there, intertwined

Forever;
Together
Enshrined.