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you ask for a leather couch & a death mask
you ask for fossil and my arteries are #lled with stents
I lift sternum to sail & tedious chores #nish — us, the waves crafting glass becoming frown
I look down at a pile of bones on sand— I don't have time for that—
It should be this way:
I'm not supposed to be dead. If you're dead... and you'll be soon, because you're always dead — because your bones are just too valuable for them to go to waste, then I'll be your mortal enemy, for life won't bring you back from the dead.
If something happened to me when you were alive, I would be your only friend here, until, you were just like me—I'd be an alien in a human body, and I'd go to work for you, I'd #nd out what happened to you.
For the next few days, you're my partner until I'm gone. But I'm going to wait for you here, and you'll be back eventually, with new teeth, better organs. And you'll see those things with your own eyes.
Because every hour of my day ends with someone else coming home. Every hour of my life ends with someone else coming home—you're like their father in a way; a shaman or a stranger leaving me no choice but to break bread