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them dead
it’s hard to
think of them dead
when there’s
always been that absence
the excuses of
time and distance
they’re still
not here in the same way
living in that
part of the mind that does not
mind yet lingers
constantly on its own innocence
that part of the
mind where no one really ages
and the futures
always there waiting undelivered
the book’s
unturned pages where
you’ve been
living since you were seventeen
or so no matter what the mirror suggests
the incremental stages
of departure unseen
unnamed uncalled
the symptoms of
a disease that do not manifest
yet are slowly
killing you all
the same
so, harder still
to think of yourself dead
unspared
outside of the endgame
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