If I write 100 poems, I’ll surely have written one worthy
of being laid atop a bouquet of violets and purple orchids,
gently nestled alongside the other flowers
that seem to grow from the grass
that covers your sleeping body. Every word I write
is for you, even if
it doesn’t sound like it. For

you are the peace
that I pray to. You are the hope
that I sing to. You are the love
that I wish could be in my arms.

For you still come to me in bursts,
lights brighter than a dream – surely
one way or another,
you must be real.
You must be waiting for me

somewhere else,
where the sun shines brighter.