Your skin was the silken wrapping of an exquisite gift;

it was not you.

Your bones were the sculpted struts of an elegant frame;

they were not you.

Your blood was the ebb and flow which washed the darkened shores;

it was not you.

Your fingerprints were maps of where you had been, and where you would go;

they were not you.

The dust that remains chokes me,

but it is not you.

 

 

You were deep inside all that,

and panoramic outside all that.

You were and are

a weightless energy that still fills my space,

a close-grained soul, dense with the essence of you.

I am awash, brimful of your spirit,

quenched by your unfiltered memory

which is thick and palpable

and feeds me.

Your soul is not a feather which wafts on a breeze;

I am swathed in it,

heavy with it.

The flames devoured your flesh, but they set your spirit free –

 

and that is the part that is you.