if only it would suffice to spew out precious nothings as odes in your wake, and to end the matter thus, confined to some dark forgotten corner in rust caked memory.
or to carve your name as a bronzen emblem on shivering bare blue skin.
were it sufficient if i was to seal your lips on an eternal canvas, paint color motes drawn from corals of sunsets, the pinky hues of tissue and flesh from petals of amaranth.
to end the matter thus and call this evidence of love. accolades of you reverberate in every miniscule second of waking consciousness, and be it enough of you.
Somehow it is