.

*If I were a poem
I’d ask you to fold me up
and put me in your pocket,
then at the end of the week,
toss me in the wash
with the rest of the clothes

And when you find me later,
smudged and smeared,
ripped and tattered into
little unrecognizable pieces,
don’t worry about it,
I was already like that

What if
Death is alive?
Sorry, I must have confused you there.

No, I mean Death is anthropomorphic
Invisible to us
But everything it touches
Dies along with its name.

Scary, or sad?
Think about it
He couldn't even touch plants, anything!
Even metals rust
When his hands touched them.

For me, that's sad.
But think about this one for a second.

What if one day
Death falls in love with Life
And he decides that he wants to touch her
For the first and the last time
In forever?

For tears that fall
On hollow cheeks
When the weeks feel like years
And the years feel like weeks.

And you sit by a grave
Where the roses grow
But the rose that you seek
Is buried below.

You have my heart
Heavy with sorrow
For the velvet rose
With no tomorrow.