To My Brother Jonathan

'Tis not when a heart beat goes full stop
and eyes then lose the power of its stare,

Nor when the sheet is stretched to cover up
your full length, no longer gasping for air,

that my pain like skin scratched by thorns
ignored when running away from hunters,

can now rest, bleed and cry for attention.
There never will be a good time ever.

To nurse loneliness like a wound,
and dress it everyday until it dries,

is to hope a healing can be found,
to finally say my good-bye-

We have few words for each other,
but love is not bound by them or any other.

Rainy August

A sunny 8am did not
come true,

the sky looking grayish white,
the color of the bedsheet.

The weatherman did forecast
lots of rain for August.

As clouds keep shifting,
a gust hits the window pane

just when I looked away,
your body still warm,

after the doctor said
you are gone.