For Steve

How surreal it is,
To be sat at a cafe,
In a foreign country,
Thinking about how my tea tastes like hot water and nothing more,
Watching the sparrows hopping from sun-spotted patch to shadow,
Thinking about the loss of a man I never knew I loved,
Until he was gone,
Death has not a beautiful face,
Nor the courteous luxury of predetermined arrangement,
And yet, blessed am I,
To have known a soul as brilliant as his;
And here I pause to give thanks,
For the added privilege of being guided for the first time across the bridge between life and all else,
By one so humble and kind. 
What good is derived from talking of fairness and deserving,
When the gentle indifference of the world knows no such limitations?
Onward, I say, to the inevitable, rewarding rush of emotion,
While the sturdy, stoic frame of closure,
Waits patiently for the cycle to return to its natural state.

The End

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