h.williams

In black letters and sometimes red, it says
there's time for everything,
time for love, hope, and grief...
but there's rarely time to breathe.

I love too easy, and laugh if it's funny,
but I'll hope till I'm blue in the face.
Grief and I are friends,
we each take turns crying
making holes in the walls with our fists.

Life and death, opposites attract
and reunite.
Everyone lives, everyone dies,
but we're only invited to their deaths.
Funerals find us, despite our crazed attempts to hide.
If you've been born, you already died
before you ever heard a white coat say why.

Death's my pal too, though we've not officially met.
He calls my moms now and then, leaving messages and empty threats.
He diagnosed her long before I even left the nest,
which maybe means he did the same to me
but I'm not buying that yet.

But still I get a little miffed when people
talk up their borrowed time.
It's fine for them,
but I know better than to blow hot air in mine.
I'll make it up to you,
like they say they'll make it up to me
but time's a cheater at every game,
and time cheats every time, I'm afraid.

But I'm not. Afraid, that is.