The skeleton sat in his chair,
legs crossed nicely at the knees,
head tilted back
and eyes
somehow closed.

He pressed a cold cloth to the
bare
bone
of his forehead and sighed
the sound of
emptiness.

He was quite lovely,
the white of his limbs unencumbered
by dusty flesh,

and seemed to know it,
his form reposed in the
chair like a
throne.

He acknowledged me without
Looking.
And spoke.

He didn’t tell me what it
was like
to die.

He didn’t explain
the sensation of
skin and strong muscle and
***** tissue
rotting, falling away,
consumed
by the vermin
of the
earth.

His words were brief, for his
jaw was unused
to such
human
movements. But he said to me
a few precious simplicities.
And then left me to
wither away.

“A truth: To be human is to be
Heavy.
To be dead is to be
Light.
But when goes the weight of
Beating hearts,
So leaves the substance
Which
Gives death itself
Meaning.”