art of dying

your face is as white

as the snow outside

all the cigarettes

you’ve smoked

tint your eyelids

with the shades of blue

I cover your ears

and allow your pulse

to fill your head

with drumming

-it’s a rehearsal

but the time hasn’t come

not yet

for now

I can still hear you

breathing

seasons

I wish I could say

that we used to be

more honest

and simple

and that we have broken

not so long ago

that it’s quite

a new thing

maybe even temporary

who knows?

not me

I could lie

it probably will

go away

when the seasons change

…

I wish you could say

that you remember

when I was so

different

not like this

that it’s a shame

I’ve turned out

to be this way

when I could have been

so much better

…

you stroke my hair

and we talk about

something else

or go outside

to watch stars

seasons change

but that’s

pretty much

it

gospel

tell me where it hurts

here?

I push my finger

against your forehead

you squint

and without any sound

move your lips

I spit on my hand

to baptize you

and pass

the gift of speaking in tongues

now

in so many new ways

you can

tell beautiful lies

tell me where it hurts

you push your finger

against my forehead

and smile

in an ugly way

I nod

and stay silent

brand new, unopened and sealed

once opened

consume within

three days

…

who knew?

you are past your

use by date

and at the age of

twenty-something

you are already

finished

processed

partially eaten

crashed with molars

and wet from saliva

with missing parts

and ripped packaging

you have

expired

you have a box

under your bed

with wrapping paper

and ribbons

sometimes

when no-one sees

you pretend

you are still

new

and unused