I sigh at the sight
of the moth I find so lifeless
in the garden,
rarely noting
its beating white
in the days or weeks gone past,
and my friend who’d passed away,
from a toxic mix, concocted,
said the reason why
he longed for death
was to grasp the love
he’d missed while still a-breath,
that after you have died,
others speak well of you,
spill eulogies of praise,
cry that you’ll be missed,
say your poems were beautiful,
your paintings, works of art,
that all the things you’d ever done
are now immortalized,
once ignored, beatified,
that he didn’t want to take his life
because he loathed the sun,
its warmth upon his face
or the birdsong of the dawn,
but in the hope
he’d somehow feel
the intangible touch
of love,
its too-little, too-late
arrival,
its better-than-never embrace,
its invisible kiss that’s heard
when someone weeps
at the foot of your grave.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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