We put red roses out for your death anniversary.
Not traditionally white, knowing you always loved with a fiery heart.
Desperately thinking of things unique to you — we still burn in your love.
My mom hasn’t quite watered down your empty presence.
How could she? Not a single one of us survives unbruised by your striking beauty.
Dutifully tried to hold onto life harder, in all its thorn-cut remnants.
I shovel deeper into unsettling news; more people faced death today.
Hundreds plucked in vain: not even halfway to bloom, they lasted too short of a phase.
More share your death anniversary, though remembered in a different way.
It suddenly seems so real — their deaths piling on top of yours.
The hopeful youth and wise elderly, both withered away irrevocably.
The rest of us wilt, what’s left of us heals, but the weight of death still kills all lovers.
Deep roots of pain bury into nothingness.
Since the spring you left us, winter is never the same.
What is lost cannot come back—the mind refuses to accept this common sense.
We put red roses out for your heavenly birthday.
Remembering life to forget death; so many seasons have passed since your death anniversary.
In our minds we plant a flower field — we still grow in your love.