since i was small,
i wanted to live forever.
every dawn is a hit of reality
and i’m eager for another.
and another.
and another.
i exhale, my cool breath hitting the air -
flavored with desperation;
is it so wrong to want more?
i wilt, only slightly, thinking about the end.
when i slouch in my chair,
i feel my heart shift closer to the soil at my feet
and i do not sink in the midst
of the flood -
i do not lose myself in the rainwater
pooling at my ankles -
i do not clench my eyes shut,
fearing where i will go
when i do
i need this more than you,
i swear.
and when i feel the back of the chair
digging into my spine
or the quiet, creeping ache of age
tugging on strands of my hair,
i resist; i deny it
the adrenaline of dawn’s kiss
is my defense against the rot,
but the night reminds me
of being small with skinned knees and a medicated wish.
i surrender, subject to the infestation of memory -
yet, my oldest prayer continues to echo
in every inch of this room:
sempervirens, sempervirens
(always green, always green)
first draft
