However Long Until

Her passing makes me want to hug everyone I see. Knowing each of them will
be leaving. I will be leaving. You will be leaving. However we go, we are going. We are dying. We are living. —Art Goodtimes

I have lost my will to argue.
I have misplaced my interest

in being right. I want to bake pies
for everyone I love. Bring people

flowers and softened melon, send
them poems and hardcover

books thick with blank pages
that they will have enough time

to fill. And you, I want to lay
all day in bed with you and

watch the autumn through
the glass. I want to bring you

my summer, my morning moon,
my migrating songbirds, my

darkness. I want to feed you
bread that I’ve kneaded, layer

it thick with sweet butter
and honeyed pear jam. And

lick the crumbs from your
chin. And make you impossible

promises. Like forever. Like we
have time. Instead I say I love you.

The best I can.


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