I can feel myself fading

It’s not as chaotic as I thought it would be,
There are no screams and tears and last words,
warped in pain and grief ,
No sound of my expected to be rapidly beating heart,
as I fight to stay alive, to stay in this world

Instead, it’s eerily calm
Just me and the howling wind,
as my mind counts the seconds tumbling by,
As I wait for the end

Surely this is not it,
Surely there is a chance,
a sliver of hope glowing among these pitch black depths

I want to believe it,
That I can somehow live,
That this is not the end,
that I am not turning to dust and nothing more,
That in this timeline where I can feel every bit of me disintegrate and turn into nothing,
there is a future,
A future for me.

And I almost do

I almost do

My eyes close,
The world seems so still,
as if the earth has quit its spinning to watch
As if all the life out there is holding its breath,
waiting to see the very end

Maybe in another universe, I will live

But for now I am just another leaf of the fall,
ready to be buried underneath the snow.

The Seine a tongue of midnight ink.
Montparnasse, a tepid August night,
star-bundles like quartz-splinters in the sky.
     The Dingo bar the place.
Jazz coming from somewhere, melody of mystery,
throng of conversation and smoke,
grey curlicues swaying above our heads.

Hemingway, feuillemort shirt, telling me I look rough.
   ‘You sleeping well?’     ‘Well enough.’
   ‘That wife of yours is pure mayhem, I tell you.’
The same old chatter. Besides, Isadora was worse,
cradling her drink as if a glass of jewels.
Then he was onto his Pamplona jaunt,
a heat that careened off from the streets,
undulations of warmth in the air
quivering like whispers.

  ‘Look here, we’re the best writers in this city
   when you’re not gallivanting over to your wife.
   Two women, one body, you know it Scott.’
I sighed, ordered another gin.
‘Transparent poison’, Ernest said again.

On the way home, faded trill de trompette in my ears,
night thriving to every pocket of Paris,
fields of unidentified liquorice flowers.
Young and in love - young with intimacy
skittering around our bodies
like delicate bees.

It's been way to long, walk back
to the land we knew
fall from the world we have now
build one together for us
just smile and speak until this dies
I'm running-
running in the woods of your sillage
breathing the memories you left in my cells
wishing we would hold the hands
and escape to the ukiyo in our heart
I'm aware this will become a memory ;dés vu
but still together
let's balter forever
leaving the foot print in the december snow
I promise, I will stare you like a mirror
bring the the color to feuillemort
when vernal is back to life
up to then feel the cold warming each others soul
I know that our eyes can talk like we used to
so don't wake up from the dream
unless we can see the scintilla.