They said death would shut our mouths—
but here, my lips are still against your skin,
my hand still searches for the curve
where your hip once met the mortal world.
They carved us into permanence,
but we were already permanent—
not in stone, but in the stubborn heat
that made the undertaker blush
and turned the priest's prayer to ash.
Maria, Maria—they think this is grief.
Fools. This is hunger.
I do not kneel to mourn you;
I kneel because my legs gave out
the moment I saw you still beautiful
on the other side of dying.
So kiss me back, my love,
even if the chisel is our only tongue.
Let the moss crawl over our feet,
let the rain wash our names away—
what matters is this:
my mouth found yours in 1945,
and it has not let go since.
We are not a tomb.
We are a dare.
We are the last goodbye
that refused to mean it.