That year I dug up too much,
wore rose quartz memories
and stared down too many
sunsets,
felt my edges soften
and become sharp again,
the continuum of freezing
and thawing,
in someone else's hands.

That year I realised that
a name itself
can be a poem,
or a will,
or a sentence,
that mirrors assess damage,
scars resemble time,
and bones are just splintered
pieces of those I miss.

That year I was an opportunity,
a calendar choking on rotting number,
a recycled version of events,
already breathed by someone luckier.

Here’s a breathing rose
Partnered with a prose
Not to entertain
Or grow old
In thy memory box.
But rather;
Here’s a breathing rose
Partnered with a prose
And a master piece
To entertain
Thy scarlet heart
That maybe it will replace
Thy blood cells
And grow old
Breathing significance into
Thy memory box
Here’s a breathing rose
A breath that shall soon be no longer
But here is a master piece
That shall forever breathe with the rhythm of thy heart
Assigned to remind you
Of this night
In hope that it will be
The pioneer of the warm tears
That shall run down thy cheeks
And it be known as:
Euphoria.