In the most sickening of moments,
I attempt to walk past death
and into that spiritless void that could be waiting,
denying us all, every second passing.
And I am afraid.
For all of us and our senseless pride.
For all of us,
and our toothpaste, exercising, eating right . . .
But most of all,
For love.
And I'd like to believe that I'd still live on,
like an ant you've stepped on,
but not quite hard enough.
I'd be determined to breathe until breathing runs out of breath,
and sends me a postcard from wherever he's gone.
Wherever I'm going.
I'd like to believe that I had set up camp with Fate,
and that he was cooking the chili,
while I was setting up the tent,
and that when night came,
we both dreamed splendid things that children dream,
and that we would wake up again.
But I've never known anyone who has gone to bed with Fate.
Although many would tell you that they had,
and smoothed his roughened skin over
with motherly delicate hands, that soothe to touch.
I wonder if they did it with their eyes open,
and if they were really just touching themselves.
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