Four plums sit
on the table beside you.
Plump and purple, a page printed
from our storybook of expired memories.
I nestled into your lap
as Fengbo tickled my feet
and ripped orchid blooms
away from their stems.
Wafting in the night sky,
they melted into a sea of stars.
I melted into your arms
as the stars shone above us,
arrow tips of metallic silver
wriggling into the corrugations of
your visage.
Your stern lines softened
by the west wind,
the faint scent of floating plums
delicate and sweet as spun sugar,
following behind like death.
Snow fell for the last time.
It is spring now, and it has been
five days. Blossoms of clotted blood
rain down around me as I reach
for the last fruit, craftily hidden
behind a still snow-laced bough.
I set it down next to you.
Five plums, five petals,
and five blessings within.
The last
a peaceful death
is what you wished for most of all.
I scatter your ashes into the spring breeze,
and watch you drift away
with a faint scent of floating plums.
Aiden Zhou is a seventeen-year-old poet from Vancouver, Canada. When not writing, he can be found playing chess or delving into a novel.