When I die, I’d like Ramana to be painted on my lips,
his name graven into the shivering fish of my mouth,
each tooth an alphabet of his,
each letter sending home
a gift of love so true,
the body rendered useless,
skin just memory of a you that never existed,
a life’s dream,
and the funeral:
a steady, yielding, unrelenting kiss
that drifts simply
into emptiness,
into endlessness.