Your face was torn leather,
shattered on the floor,
like the sun we tried to burn;
like the river we tried to drown;
like the wind that pushed us down the hill,
across the snow.
We were sledding,
but you said that we were






flying.
I was naïve.
I did not know what were flying from.
But now I do:
we were escaping
Death.
Your Death.
Death did not catch you,
but you turned into

Dust
and

Bones
anyway.
And your Bones would whisper to me
as we sat on your scratchy couch,
next to the pale pink, suffocating walls.
Your Bones would whisper to me
stories of my dead friends,
my friends who I had not yet met.
And I wish I could believe in something that is

Not Life.
I wish I could believe that you are with them now,
and that one day I will meet them,
and you can tell me more stories,
and we can burn the sun
and drown the river
and fly down the hill in the snow with the wind.