I moulder each time I recall you
wearing a red ribbon that December day
four years ago was this morning.
I die of perfection in the picture of you and
an autistic girl, your best friend, taken
a year ago was yesterday.
I shed a tear because it would have been
worth constricting the world
and universes into one.
There’d never have been poetry,
but poetry wasn’t missed
a lifetime ago was never.