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.

 

 

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