And every time,
he offers me delicacies,
tempting me with sweets --
peaches,
plums,
pomegranates,
peace,
telling me over and over again
how easy it would be
to just stay.
No more pain,
no more uncertainty,
no more fear . . .
These are the things I think about
in my time Between.
As I sit beside him,
stories spilling from my lips
to pass the time,
I cannot help but envision --
above me
my friends wither
my family cries
clasps hands,
prays,
as the world goes cold.
Winter’s duration
depends upon the length
of our conversation.
I now find my
springtime shadowed,
darkened by a threat,
his parting a perpetual
“until next time.”
Wondering how,
wondering when
he will call me next.
He always calls.
This is our agreement.
Although I am not old,
together we are timeless.
We laugh at each other’s jokes
before the punchline is told.
We converse in silence
and gesture,
the inevitability of our relationship
a shroud I try to unweave
each night we are apart . . .
But that’s the wrong story.
These are the things I think about.
I wonder --
Will there be anyone
to hold me,
to tell me it was all worth it,
when it’s over?
Will my strength
be my salvation,
or my damnnation?
These are the things that matter,
for in the end,
everyone dies alone.
The words not written,
the stories not told,
the temptation succumbed to --
These are the things I lament
as I sit by his side
and he claims me slowly,
one seed at a time.
He does not rush,
rather, he slinks in,
like oil on water,
willing to taint me gradually.
For he knows that eventually
enough time will have passed,
and, satisfied no longer with seeds,
I will swallow the whole fruit.