Anyway

I wish to die a slow death riddled

with something incurable -

that you would die for anyway. 

I don’t want to go unknowingly

in my sleep

or fiercely combust in a blaze of glory. 

I’d prefer to suffer

home to a number of infirmities

steeped in awareness

of my own tragic flaws.

I could lose my mother tongue

my ability to smell fries and vinegar

or a fresh summer rain on the fur

of spring violets. 

I might become a simple blank stare

where the trees once met the sky. 

Clouds would not matter

or the earthworm turn of seasons

save for the layers

I might need to assume. 

I wouldn’t mind keeping

some bodily functions

as in the basics;

peeing, drinking

knowing when to love

and when  the burner

should be turned to off.

My heart I’d also like to keep

close to my chest -

like a house of cards

so close to collapse that

all it would take

would be a puff of breath

or a  ghost of a hiccup.

I’d rather die a slow death riddled

with something incurable -

your afterimage still burning.

Anyway.