I keep with me
a dying rose
which sleeps beside me
on the pillow.

Once alive
it now lies
in between
life and my breathing pillow-side
which doesn't allow it to expire
even though it should.

It fell in a spiral
from your funeral pyre
and I plucked it up
as a sign
you gave
that we'd remain
forever close;
forever in love.

On the first night
it quivered from my breath
and I breathed more
and seemingly
that rose contained your soul
and was inspired nightly
to new life
from my warm expirations.

They all think
I am grief-drowned
and will recover soon;
but, no
they don't understand.

It is not the rose I keep
but the soul
within that sleeps
beside me
each night since.

If spirits live,
and, I am sure yours does,
mine reaches yours
in our sleeping rose.

Nineteen,
its clear,
was too soon
for you to go;

rather, you take
refuge with me
each night
disguised as rose-
until it truly  becomes
your time
to go.

I pray each night
hoping that
it is not too soon;
but, when the time comes
there will be two rising roses
two souls two;
rising quietly
in our sleep.