365 Poems/198 Ending (Rough First Draft)
Being close to you as death pulls up
your roots, is like inhaling glass.
My unsettled skin is like fur,
not fully stripped, and I can’t help
but fall into the memories, pooled
at the entrance of my mind.
Memories of your strong tongue.
The way you would make me writhe,
like the first summer dawn.
I think of your words, that would spill
like rope and entangle me, while our smiles
stretched to the moon and back.
You are the best view I’ve ever had
I want to say to death be tender,
please, you are not fighting thunder.
But your blue wolf eyes trust my silence,
and the light of the forest, as it knocks
gently on the window, and slips quietly
into the room.