I remember putting my ears
on filthy mud,
trying to hear your voice.
Since six feet apart
your soul was buried,
six feet apart —
a distance for sorrow,
maybe remembrance of pasts,
or remembrance of present.
I missed you all over for past,
I wished to see you,
wish I was a time traveller,
walking to you as young as ever,
handsome as ever.
But death is the cost,
losing you was a blackened heart.
Though breath was shallow,
restless was indeed
the foolish heart of mine,
wanting you even in your wounds,
wanting you even in your sorrows.
Yet the ache to love you,
even in your stupid self,
wearing laughing stocks,
dangled hair,
dry matted lips,
with under bags under your eyes,
shaggy like your grief.
You were my beauty,
even in those rags
that you wore for Halloween costume.
What a fun time,
a memory for life.
Now I feel the ugly love,
between far in the universe,
letting me know I am real.
Finally, those red roses,
with chocolate dots,
romantic evenings in fancy dinners,
the dramatic one‑knee proposal
seems too shallow.
None was true,
yet it’s that love,
that ugly love,
felt meaningless until I saw yourself.
I accepted long before
I understood you.
In sudden hollow
I felt you more than me —
it was you all along.