365 Poems – 147 Dying For The Last Time (Rough First Draft)
Dying For The Last Time
When I’m dying for the last time,
I want you leading me,
like a horse to water.
I’d really like another turn.
it’s what the living are
supposed to do; try again.
You hide your tremors well,
touch me as soon as I get home,
from talking about the end,
with a stranger who doesn’t make notes.
You touch me before I have the chance
to ask if you remembered to buy fruit,
that’s supposed to make me feel ‘good.’
I’d planned to be an explorer.
But that’s all gone to fuck.
You insist summer will be different.
You’re convinced warm weather
will tire out the cancer, make it retreat.
That we’ll constantly talk of just lovely things
and fuck as sunlight warms our curtains,
and the day begs us to get up.
You damn England’s relentless
wetness, and shout at the sky
until your throat is broken.
With my finger, I slowly trace
a word on the back of your neck
and you start to gently cry my name.