A week after his father died, he didn't call me
I could understand the reason why
Heard about it from another friend
It was an attack, he said

Life's fragile moments, I thought to myself
He was like me but what did he feel
Dissonant but arpeggiated at the same time?

At school, he used to talk to his pillow
We used to joke about it
Would the pillow be a gentle friend to him?
Tell him about the stars and distant life

as they danced to the quiet pale night
the smell of jasmine, the sounds of crickets

All this, I wondered, as the roses finally arrived

What he would see in them
That covered his father's body at the last rites
The dead ones, the free ones and ones
which need to breathe out

And then, The silence...
Of glistening memories,
Of trust and dreams,
Of all that had passed and what has to...