An Elegy

They say that grief makes the best poet,
but I would let God snatch the words
right out of my hands if it meant He
would breath life into you again; I would go
deaf, dumb, and blind if I were once again
exposed to the light of your cashmere body.
Life ceased. Not just in your eyes, but in
my flesh the day the eyes of the
jealous took hold of your body, crushing
you beneath their furious weight.

Here is what I know. The day that you
died, I ran after you thinking that I saw
your shadow, but what I was chasing was a memory.
They say that memories are what makes life pleasant
afterwards, but that is a lie. The memories
make you more bitter. Rubbing that spot on
your belly, telling you I love you, telling
you I am sorry, sneaking you on my bed,

rubbing that part of your ear that was
like velvet. I haven't felt anything since,
and I never will.

Okay, this is not done at all. I have to work on it, I want to make it longer. But here is my hand at trying.