It’s four o’ clock in the morning. The earth prepares for twilight. As the clouds regurgitate its splendid moment of nudity, your breathing descends immensely. I whisper to you, Remember the day you asked me about my age? You said, “how old are you?” You laughed so hard when you saw my mercurial reaction. So hard your dimples shaped the flesh in your cheeks at 20. And I felt I was at my 29th year again.
Dearest,
This respirator might defeat your frail body but never will it succumb the high-spirit in you. Throw wide the memories we had like quicksilver for they were fated to be watched like little slates of flashback episodes of our love. Sleep soundly and contain only me in your anxious child’s heart. Let me wan all acts of self-betrayal done by your restless fear of leaving the fruits of our honest labor in this world stained by piqued hardships and disgust.
Dearest love,
I’ll hold the same palms on our wedding day,
I’ll thresh the same finger tips now calloused and overdosed by your encroaching empathy and trust.
…On our death bed will sleep together like we knew this bed is ours and ours to keep.
—–
On our death bed at 25, 34, 52, 68, 79 years we’ll live our lives twice.
A composite of me and the universe 