Your life here with me was like a poem.

One classic beginning filled with a terrifying beauty.

One classically ending, just like that, with a guttural, tangible pain.

Oh! Your story had barely been written, barely been given breath to its words.

In the womb you lived.

In the womb you died.

I loved you, before you, my darling poem, were written.

I love you still, after you, my darling poem, had so much left to be written.