Your olive skin
is sinking

(when we were kids
you put black olives
on your fingers
and you grinned)

your fingers are worn
hands
cracked with age
from bearing the weight
of heavy things

(when we were kids
we were Greek gods
we were infinite
darling,
you gave me my wings)

and I can feel it
closing in

the way you can't
force yourself awake
when hard days
euthanize
you.

I can feel mortality
pushing you down
(it's pushing me too)

maybe
I should pray more
than I do.