there should be flowers:
purple irises, black lilies,
red roses lit up by spotlights.
You say I think about death too much.
Our legs entangle, hands stroking chests
stroking stomachs. I agree, but I also say, 
“Sprinkle my ashes in the Adriatic.”
Where I’ve never been. 
There are so many places I’ve never been:
back to my high school, the bar where we first met,
Ocracoke’s shore. Licking hot sauce from
Buffalo wings. My father’s funeral. The florist 
next to the lavandería on Avenida General Mendiburu.
These, you whisper to me—across my lips, down my spine,
in the webbing between my thumb and index finger— 
as if you could bring me back to life.