My cousin passed away this morning. I loved her. Love her. Still in shock, and without an original impulse in my blood, I’ll try to express what I’m feeling as a love poem, though not literally addressed toward her, or a lover, but more toward life, personified.

The Love that Binds

we will get fatter
and fatter
year by year.
your skin will fold and your breasts will unravel.
my sharp corners will soften and sag.
you will contract a disease that is virtually incurable,
but little will it matter, as the crash will kill you.
but long,
long before that,
i will accuse you of being a lying, backstabbing cunt,
because I found two wine glasses in the dishwasher,
as I unload them,
like you sweetly asked me to.
before the hospital stays,
you will wonder if you can ever feel safe around me,
as my drinking worsens,
and my glass marbles for eyes
are so lifeless that you are both angry and scared.
before you the doctor asks if i’d be willing to give you my kidney–
just one–
you will see an ex boyfriend (technically a fuck-buddy, since he “just wasn’t into monogamy”–which somewhat made him the-1-that-got-away)and wonder long and hard why you traded those exhilarating adventures, for the grocery shopping and wednesday missionary routine we defaulted to?
And before I heard our blood-types don’t match
that my kindey was safe,
i asked you, for the 1,872 time
why you think that I can’t tell when you aren’t being honest–
and why you think you can’t be (which, sure, is a self-fulfilling prophecy).
And those trifles, and penises, and crumbs,
will boil away
and the presidents, we grew up thinking were eternal, have all died
the lonely deaths we will.
and our families have left, violently, slowly, peacefully, surprisingly, expectedly.
And I will see you fade,
atom by atom
one layer of skin
breezing into the stars,
as I sit in the lay on the carpet, broken hearted,
broken stomached, crying an absurd song That I fake,
Because I think that That is the Proper way to Honor You.
And I don’t Honestly have any idea
Where to Begin.
But when the terror of living, reckons,
when the wisdom of mystics catches us,
and the castle we built is sieged by time–
when the weapons we’ve tried are destroyed by love
and the cold wind dies, as it always does,
I will call send you a text
hoping you’re still up,
just to say hi,
bracing for the next text.


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