i'm not impervious to the fact that
if the universe allows
i will grow old and die one day
i know that my skin will draw back from itself
the way picasso drew on canvas
and vines and creases will work their way
into my once fair and smooth skin
but when i go i want long flowing white hair
that brushes my back gentle as a feather
and lingers behind me like a second goodbye
hair that i can twirl into knots absentmindedly
an braid while bored in church
i want ink stains on my hand from the spilled
ink of writing poetry and stories
notebooks filled with the words that came
out of the sharp movements of my hands
and my hands
i want hands soft but worn
like my mother's favorite winter coat
i want hands that have held and let go
i want hands that know what the hell they're doing
i want toenails painted the most obnoxious
shade of red and mascara packed on like a
suitcase going on a trip to heaven
i want to be that old lady with the cats
because, let's face it, we all know i'm already
that old lady with the cats
they'll be named names from literature and plays
and i'll hope their names match their counterparts
but if they don't i'll love them anyways and
hold them with these hands that will have held
onto so many things before
when i go i want to have lived
and i want to have lived really really good

There is a soft tune that
moves beneath your fingers
as they move over the pages
and words and worlds
that you will never see.
All the words of hope
that I whisper
to the you
who exists within these barriers
of skin, bones and sorrow.
I fear these words will be like the music
that doesn’t stop but fades,
dissolving into time and distance.
Like that music
it will pass from me to you,
from you to nothingness.

These red rashes on my skin
flowers blooming
one by one
of different colours
on the same tree
several now
all over me
the rashes
almost hide the tree
when spring is an epidemic.

Raindrops forget to
drop
a drop
dropping slowly
the rain forgets to stop
stop
plop
a plop of blood in the ocean of firestorm
now death opened
like an unturned boat in the
middle of the world
to receive the last plummet of hope,
last blessing
in a humane drop from above
above
the above has
no rain for the next season
the winds are afraid to return.