In another life,  A parallel past,  In our old age,  Wrinkled and annoyed,  I must have told you:  “Maybe in the next life  We should see other people.”    You must have agreed. Half-heartedly, distracted, Attention already drifting.   Maybe that’s why, in this life,  We could never make it work.  Our time burned hot,  Brilliant with the promise of more,  Then faded far too quickly With no reason I could hold onto.   That’s why, in this life,  I met other people.  I loved oth

“Hold still,” you whisper. I writhe, I squirm, Your palms burn into me, Melting away the hardened ridges. I fear that there will be nothing left, Flesh and bones wrung into pliable clay. “No more!” I beseech. Deceiver. Beguiler. This time, I might not be able to find myself, Too distorted to take form again. “It must be. It will be,” you promise. Helpless, I bear witness to the cycle, Repeated, relentless, predestined. I surrender to the inferno, Fire breaks me. Air tempers m

I mourn for what waits on the horizon I rehearse for the pain that it will elicit I have slipped between the veils, And witnessed the sorrow yet to be bestowed. I grieve prematurely, Hoping to elude the full weight of grief. I bargain with gods, seeking serenity   To face the event and endure To balance the void with the joy that once was, To illuminate the absence with memories of now. Despite countless rehearsals and endless goodbyes, Choked out in waking dreams, then again