—AM ALL THE WAY OVER THE PAIN? NOT YET, BUT THE SUN KEEPS COMING UP, BABY, AND I’M STILL BREATHING

 

 

Reap

 

Time, on your tongue, must taste like acid, or arsenic, as you slow-swirl it in a bitter glob across your molars. It’d be okay, if it wasn’t creative non-fiction. We’ve only months and weeks left, yet you keep punching holes into everything until it all seems fabricated, like a toupee, Gulliver’s Travels, or a trapdoor with an itchy spring under the rug. 

But didn’t I kiss you like the world was formed just for us? And didn’t you kiss me back with a tremor in your throat? Didn’t that all matter more than any kiss, more than what we’re both regretting now, as The Reaper takes two steps forward?