Death cannot touch our love

for it's trapped in shattered pieces of glass—

where no words make any sense;

where the orchestra of a bright darkness

clung near our ears,

and the waves come crashing gently—

until the evening light fades into tears.

It's my favorite story to begin and end

at the same time when the day starts.

A story cheaper than my heart,

shorter than the distance between us.

You love the space between us

where our sweats mingle.

I love the words of the dead poets

that I feel were made solely for me.

The pale orange conversation,

new etched on the blue walls,

come along as a loud whisper—

Colder than your metallic blood.

Death cannot touch our love,

for it's trapped in the glittered butterfly jars.

I live on each word of yours

that stings me like burning red wine.

When I asked what our lives are worthy of,

You told me it's an illusion of nothingness.

You told me we were the victims of memories

that burn everything down until ourselves.

Yet you write me love songs on green afternoons

and let them flow away with the wind in autumn.

I like to believe that our love's more than love.

Where we almost see and never see each other.

Where the wind blows dry, and the voice says, you've lost him.

Where your songs turn into ashes, smeared with blood—

and our worlds end on one tulip afternoon

in the middle of everything in nothing.

But you'll find me wide awake with our last song

on my still-moving chest; it isn't day or night.

A memory of margarita and lemongrass remains my last dream.

A river flowing fast with everything in nothing.