I keep thinking –
There must be a God of little death.
To whom you never sing praises,
But you do speak, the two of you.
On days where minutes turn
To crushing stone that hold you
Down. When your friends
Start to look like their parents.
When your child tells the same lie
That you always told.
When beauty becomes feeling –
Because it has to,
Because the mirror doesn't
Work like it used to.
It happens when you least expect:
Your blood stops simmering,
And starts to thicken.
On those days you talk to
The God of little death
And you beg, in a voice that haunts
The air around your head:

"Dignify me!"

We're all invincible,
Until we're inevitable.