For the first time, the viewfinder fails to lose your years—
It kisses collapsed jowls, coaxes wire from your scalp,
Lauds that torn ear (which I swear is lower than before).
Each time you turn your head, my disgust at your denouement
Bows to disgust at my revulsion.
(By the time I finish my Flux Capacitor it will be too late and
You are already paying for my lethargy.)
Cactus coughs clamber out of your throat.
I close my eyes and you sigh and
I breathe in, involuntarily.
Words coarsen my throat and you and I and even our resident quarks know that you will die.