Your death took place on a Tuesday
That day marked the death
Also
Of my pen

You laid lifeless before the examiner
The last place you would exist
Whole
As you always had been - whole.

Poetry taught me that there are
Some things you cannot say
Some things that don't need saying
Some things silent

As you are now - silent
As my pen is now - silent
Because words do not fill space
Like water in a vessel 

Words have no weight and float
In the air above our heads
Till we have the time and 
Convenience to catch them

Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs
Does not tell us at which point
Beauty becomes beauty again
After death renders all ugly

I hope, brother,
That in death you have beauty
Beauty which had been denied you
In life

I hope, as well,
That words return to my pen
That I may write to say
I miss you.