Maybe the feel of my skin
will be that of a dryer sheet,
and I will sink back into soft dewy grass,
not knowing nor caring where I am.
And maybe the sun will not be up quite yet,
but the edge of it yawning over the distant foothills.
Maybe the snow will not fall.
Maybe the birds will not sing.
Maybe it will only be the first edges of a sunrise
and me, and the dew on my dryer-sheet skin.
Maybe it will be memories and ideas that never were,
lost loves and shredded illusions and a few of my oldest dreams.
Maybe it will be nothing but smiles
and one universal language
whose tenses I will know by heart beforehand.
And though it is winter and the snow will not fall,
maybe it will still be cold,
among the dewy grasses.
Cold because everything is now over.
Cold because I am dying.
Cold because it is the end.
But when the sun has risen for the last time,
maybe then it will not be over.
Maybe the dew will dry and leave tracks
down the expanse of my dryer-sheet skin.