someday when I die
if my thoughts continue on
without a body or being
I often wonder if
my postconsciousness
will still think of you

will you be the last thought
the final breath I draw
guiding me to the stars
a voice whispering
I'm good and still loved

if you are engraved
into my very soul
impossible for me to wash off
or remove

I'll die haunted
by the person you are
the things we never were

a lobotomy can't fix me
you will still exist

even when my heart stops beating

bleed from finger tips
pressed into plastic keys
repeat routine regularly
until wrunged and wrinkled
some of us are just built wrong
you hear yourself say out loud
dream of escape to Aokigahara
where the trees whisper your name
and even darkness is palpable
you can taste it on your lips
the hemlock firs surrounding
dirt and parsnips on your tongue
your skin itches and you are
wildly uncomfortable in the vessel
sleep now, the forest demands