The images my eyes have absorbed will dilute;
only a residual stain will be left.
My senses will soften and lend themselves to my imagination;
only shrapnel of the past.
The thoughts that once impregnated my brain;
will be drowsy and dog eared.
My face will crease and fold itself into a white sheet;
Ironed with the heat of laughter and tears.
My teeth will push themselves out of their sockets in protest to beauty.
My heavy limbs, condensed with history;
Will curl into a petite cage of bones,
And become buried deep within my sheet of taupe skin.
And all the momentum of life,
Will push itself into a crescendo of;
A faint peppering of sunspots,
scars,
wiry hair.
Because there is an intense beauty in letting yourself go,
and reaching for the next page.