i think about ending it often.

ending the friendship that burns me out.
ending the relationship i am falling out of.
ending the pain of it all.

but ending it would mean the end of something else.

the end of us laughing in your mother’s car.
the end of you pressing your lips into the palm of my hand.
the end of all my undiscovered tomorrows.

i find myself wishing for an end that wouldn’t quite end at all.

and me?
i was the dust accumulating on a book he once loved.

unobtrusive in nature, but ubiquitous all at once.
a small presence that often goes unnoticed.

when he reaches for the book, i will linger on the tips of his fingers for just a moment, filled with a fleeting and embarassing sense of hope.

the hope that he was actually reaching for me.

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.

i may not be bold enough
to claim that i'd **** for you,
but if you seek proof of my heart,
i'll slice and peel you a purple dragonfruit.

in the end,
my hands will be stained—
not with blood, but purple,
and it would mean all the same.

the fuzz on my face,
the rolls in my waist,
i'm sure you'll find ways,
to capitalize these distastes.