I have the tears of a snowman at the kiss of your sun, welcoming your fire with a scarf slipping askew.
When you go, I will be the space left behind, warmed but empty.
At various stages of his life, he had dealt with grief in different ways. As a child he would cry; as a boy he would forget it by playing pointless games; as a teen he would drown it out with music and the everyday life, but nowadays he just wrote stories for strangers to read, hoping selfishly that they would perhaps take some of it away.
I wished, the crying in the middle of the night would stop and it did. The laughter stopped too, but the scent of baby powder still clings to my arms.
I don’t usually smoke.
In this moment, however, the only thing more appropriate than a cigarette would be for it to be my funeral instead.