As the spring sings its song,
So awfully close to the sighs of summer,
I can almost envision the steps of another beside me.

The omnipresent scent of baby’s breath
Lingers, dances, through the shades of blue
and tints of pink of the bleeding sky.

And the sun that you so warmly welcomed
hardly seems content without its keeper;
Never have I seen such a desire for containment.

Your shadow moves in like the dark of midnight,
and if the guitar had wept for you before,
It would now surely be a lonesome mess.

Your footprints follow suit, never to be filled.
Did you mean to leave such a gaping hole?
Mountains cry violet and seas dry pale,
do you know?
Do you know how the crisp November air
suffocated us on the day of your departure?
Or how the humble garden given life
by your fertile hands is cold to the touch evermore?

Sweetly plucked guitar strings ring out from once upon a Bangladesh,
Where the sun rose and set like the slow-melting record
that holds you voice, your words, your numbing melodies.

But if you ever thought the Duo had the upper hand,
or your silent genius was somehow trite,
know that none were tantamount to your crystalline tranquility.
The city lights were but a flicker of dim glow to you,
and the chaos of the world gave more the reason for unruffled thoughts.

The dense, pollen filled air knits itself around all I know,
with whispers of life dribbling through the silent trees—
these moments, with the dewy sun spreading itself atop the roofs and leaves,
harness the essence of heavenly division
with you at it’s cusp, between life and death.