#id simply be throwing hands

the scent of pomegranates filter through the chasm

and i turn, hoping to see you—

you have never outgrew the smell of pomegranates on your neck and sandalwood on your legs—

but it is simply the goddess,

whom is beautiful beyond words to compare,

but never as beautiful as you.

she breaks the fruit open and hands me the seeds

and it feels like kissing you once again.

they do not tell me where you are

but surely, you were not meant to be in the asphodel meadows

where my mere soul rests.

it seems, my love, that even in the afterlife

the gods do not favour us.

- semantics of the dead