to grieve is to know love intimately.

to pluck his voice from a crowd,
though I've not heard it in years.
to reminisce about my fingertips
reading his calloused hands like braille
and finding my next breath in every tactile.

to recognize any morsel of his being
in any dimension
and pledging patience to the search
in every lifetime.
to finding him.
and knowing he is ever present.

to curse the sky because
his life was not the only thing lost.
to celebrate the life of my grace
by assassinating it.

to wage war with the universe
in hymns of brutal octaves
and pray nothing survives,
for a life without him
is not much of a life at all