Ice cubes in my pocket on the warmest afternoons
(No matter how many times they melt into my thigh)
2. Roses on your doorstep each evening,
Piling up until they completely obstruct the entrance to your apartment (kind-of-almost-maybe-love)
The kind that goes and goes
Growing out of your mouth.
The kind that is unsure what to name itself
Or in which land, on which surface, on which continent
It was born,
And why it is still living.
The kind that may not have ever existed in the daylight.

The one thing I have never been able to comprehend
Are endings.
How they have the most extraordinary timing
And are void of any and all emotion.
How their potential is drained,
How they could not possibly be believed in any less.
How they are the stage following internal damage,
Preceding external
And missing socks, I must have left my keys on the counter
(Kind-of-almost-maybe-lost)
is lying on the the side of the freeway.
How an ending's only intention is death
Or disappearance.

Somehow they manage to chase us down
In all-black
And abduct us.

The eulogy was short.
Some say they don't remember hearing it at all.