there is still love after your death
that trickles from my tears
and the sound my string quartet makes
from the symphony where my heart once lay.

there is still life after your loss
though the flowers aren't quite as vivid
and the way the sun beams peak from the clouds
no longer chokes up a sense of joy, but sorrow.

there is still chaos from the clarity, that was you--
no matter the love
no matter the life
and no matter the heartbeat, it's not you.

no joy will suffice like the melted time
and melted lives we once knew.

and--
if there is still love after your death,
why must the sun run from the moon?