He said.
Those dreaded final words.
Somehow knowing I say everything,
yet nothing at all.

In the birds, and pocket knives;
the robins, I see you.
Imagining your pride
in who I've become.
The attitude.

May I carry your whit,
reel it in a little bit,
with Kitty's hair I hope to pass along.

They were grateful you were saved.
Mere moments ahead, you caved;
the one wish being not to cremate.
Leaving me curious what you withheld
and if you could see it, too.