I imagine myself talking to you often
enough to think it were an obsession, the idea of
you and I exchanging pleasantries,
the kinds felt in the marrow of my fore arm bones
and maybe even my thigh bones,
sometimes we are that good,
shaking the foundation which I balance on,

like when you told me I am going to die young
preserved in a classic pose with pearls in my ears
and a straight back. A slightly older, classier version of myself
I imagine. She drinks red wine and sits alone under blankets,
still having conversations with you on a lost frequency,
She waits for the light to fade, to wrap itself around her old human body,
for the light to take her with it when it disappears.

Already I am pulling at myself
like any breeding animal with the
instinct to be a selfish mother,
Wondering if I let go and abandon
this shell in a watered down suicide
will I have more time on this Earth?
Or will they say at my wake,
huddled in traumatized circles,
after they've read my life and figured me out,
she was obsessed with death for a while
instead of she was impressed
    with the brevity of life?