Dear Gilbert,

I had thought i could live vicariously through you.
that i could lie like concrete, passive! and let all what comes roll over me
while you wrote poetry on some remote island, your mind drowning and your organs imploding.

You wrote poetry so i didn't. I could read simply
I could spend days in dullness and live inside the fences of this irredeemable being.  
'Tear it down' you said 'we find out the heart only by dismantling what the heart knows'
So i kept digging into my chest, hoping to rip it out one day.

You are dead today, and i know that you chose it no more than i chose my birth.
I know that you've refused heaven
that you don't want to live in peace.
Yet a blur sets in compulsorily, some semblance of grief
Just like our unknown compulsion to love landscapes and snow.

I don't know what to wish for you, I don't know if to wish at all.
I just clutch on to your poems while drifting away in southern currents.