Having never done it before
body and mind do not know
how to die gracefully.

A process marked by desperation and awkwardness.
Half conscious,
hobbled by oxygen depletion
and an sinister incredulity
that the end is actually happening.

If the dueling forces of unease
and temptation
in dust left unstirred could still save you,
I’d dredge you from the creeping harsh stillness.
Lay you out on a soft wooden surface
weathered to graceful perfection by time
and divine a map
between the concrete troubles
around us
and the turmoil within.

But bark don’t make a wound
or ease the path of our farewells,
for a choice
without the presence
of another
only exercises
the power of reclusivity.

Go ahead,
resolve our plot
pick anything.
Something more intimate
than a secret.
Unafraid
to be around
a little less often.

Anything other
than stepping over newspapers
and knocking on the door,
to no answer.

So I keep knocking,
while you keep
not
answering.