Photo Album

I remember that day
when you bought your
first Canon, capturing every
single move I made,
instructing me to "stop
hunching shoulders,
and smile a little".

On that day, we kissed
twenty two times before we
could say good night.

Taking a look
at the photos now,
and they're not
as beautiful as you said
they were.
Death was standing in every
single photo. Warning me,
mocking me, staring at
my naive laughing face, its purple
lips moving to say: "it won't
last long, it won't
last long".

You wanted jasmines on your grave;
white as your heart, fragile and tender.

There's an escaping body
in the last photo.
Melting flesh, and skin
that is too torn apart
to cover bones,
and fingertips; licked
away by tumultuous
flames.

I'm sorry I didn't go to cry
at your funeral. I was always
the one who didn't cry
in funerals.