I have your pink book in my hands
in a Sunday morning you will never
see. (you're playing dead
or alive with me)
It has your name on it
it is your book.
I wonder if you would approve
of this pink cover. In the
bookstore I called this color
mine.

One of its pages has been licked
by a dog. Did you used to like dogs?
And what about your babies?
I'm almost sure they did.

This morning i ate my breakfast
in bed and prepared to put off life
only for a few days,
so i myself can become
months
and years become
then slit my tongue

I miss you simply because
you existed. as many other
insignificant things (which
i also miss) did, in their
time.

If you were alive I would tell you about how silly life is in the morning and you would smile like this sun that insists on setting my room
burning.