We took you to the shore in secret,
body carefully bundled upon fruitwood,
a pyre blazed and lapped near the waters
of the same ocean that claimed my love.
Before that we covered you
in oils, perfumes, salts, and more
wine than you had ever consumed
to carry with you beyond the ether,
all else ephemeral and given to ash.
Proof that flesh does not matter
to the element engulfing it.
The fire would render your heart naked
as if immune to the hungry flames,
but I cannot bear to see it so exposed.
As where mine always felt like thin glass
that could touch shards and make monsters,
yours could still squeeze blood from a stone
to make things that I never could to
preserve something tangible long after
its beautiful spirit has already fled.
I’ll still take you where I go from here,
kept wrapped in thick fine silks
and bound by your beautiful words
instead of forever inside me.
Proof that flesh only matters
to those who have enfolded it.
