So odd, you died with such dignity
though saliva dribbled out of your lips.
I thought your dry heaving, stale breaths
and thick, stewy vomit would make you less appealing,
I wanted to have sex with you then.
Laying there alone, you needed someone
to lay with you, kiss the corner of your mouth
stroke your jawline, show you how alive you still are
until the last moment.
More over, there's something erotic in death
if not the simple fact that it's startling to watch
an entire life come to a halt.
What else could I offer?
I told you about a dream from the night before
about the road on the edge of town
that smells like stale inner-factory walls
but sounds like freedom in June.
Your slow gazing eyes, contently cruising my face
it's not that you're ready to go
but that you're not in control anymore
and three years of this has turned you into a husk.
No one is holding you, they've all gone home.
I'll hold you because I am also a husk by life.
Hiding my tears behind your gently shut lips--
I guess I could sing in a time like this,
there's a window to look out of, as well.
(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)
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