it's really not a poem... 
more a spillage of thoughts 
compressed in my breast ever since we parted. 
that is to say...
thoughts compiled upon morn after morn, since you departed. 
it's not really a poem at all you see... 
for poems are structured, with reason for an author to have written, 
or at least to have tried. 
my reason is gone, however...
now that you've died. 
i wouldn't say this is a poem about you either... 
for if it were, the words would not stay still upon the page this way.
the words would smile in your life 
and cry in your death in a sentimental sway. 
i wouldn't call this a poem about you... 
for you are no longer alive in this dead world of pain, 
for you have ascended above the makers of rain. 
i wouldn't call this a poem by a poet at all... 
but rather a tale of your death and my infinite fall.