If I gave a knife and asked you to take the tip
and run it's icy breath across my face
Would you do it?

If I danced across a burning flame
and asked you to step into the light
Would you question it?

And If I looked to you in an hour of need
My skin pulled paper taught
and a look of wordless want across
the sand dunes of my face

Would you help me do it?

For perhaps a deeper need is not within the things
we would or wouldn't do, but in the things we share.

You needn't take the knife
You do not need to watch me burn
You do not have to help me die

But if I ever turn to you and ask of you a sin
I ask, if you cannot, that you quietly still keep me in your mind.

Longing
Dancing
Dying

My wrinkled hand scorching a single
frozen sandprint in your palm
as I drift away for one last time