There’s no one else I would smother myself with –
day after day, in your death you have touched:
my soul, my face, my breast, my will to live –
I don’t. I can’t. I do. Still live.
Tell me – your urn, do you fill it as fully as you once did me?
Do you sing to it, kiss, do you slap it?
Are you going to die on her too? Leave her, stab her?
I hate you know. I don’t. I do. (Still live.)
Death is appealing, I agree – but I am scared that when we meet
you won’t remember who I am, who I belong to, who we are.
You cannot kill the dead, my love. Trust me, I tried.
I’m jealous of the peace you have – please wait.
How often do you have to breathe to stay alive?
Because I can’t. I do. Still live. (I won’t.)