Paint my tongue,
This ache of separation is killing me,
My atoms throb in this loneliness,
This absence of you, in life,
This existence is nothing without you,
The air is emptier,
I hold grapes, figs and honey close to my skin,
Let them drape me,
As if their sweetness would be comparative to what you bought to me,
This internal throbbing,
One which I cannot share,
A struggle to write in words,
How your death was so disorienting,
This contortion.
Your grandeur,
Expressed in dreams,
In the gold you wear in your smile,
Ama,
Oh Mother,
Oh Grandmother,
The Mother of all Mothers,
My heart, my womb, my tomb,
This Severance in existence has left me looking for peace in a place where I do not belong,
The Saints in my dreams are nothing but People,
The only Saint I am looking for you is you.
You were my home.