I walked into the room that contained your urn.

I approached the object that confined your death.

Made it terminal, posing with its leverage.

 

That your urn rose above me disturbed me.

I couldn’t reach it, I was too small, I felt stuck in the wrong position.

The urn that withheld all of our dreams and infected me with nightmares.

 

I would stand there, tiptoeing around it.

Silently panting, my thoughts as loud as destruction.

The room was engulfed in a grey finished light, matte.

 

I felt you there, beside me, maybe.

Imagining your own prevailing bones.

Perhaps, I was a bit fascinated by what had befallen someone close to me.

 

But at the same time I excluded myself, ran away, turned my back on everything.

I existed without death, the taste and memory of it,

But I noticed that it follows and finds you everywhere.

 

It gave me a feeling that I had to deal with.

You in an urn.

You never coming back. You silenced forever.

 

I stared at this foreign object, its grandeur,

And thought: I will never see it again.

And by extension, you.

 

You have been made object.

Your scent still lingered in the room, in the bathroom cupboards.

I thought I can never get rid of death.

 

I reduced everything to a minimum.

And uttered my goodbyes without saying a word, shunned.

Because what happened between you and me, felt so very safe in that mute urn.

800px-Conrad_Kiesel_-_In_contemplation

“In Contemplation” by Conrad Kiesel (1846-1921)

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