The edge of black takes over
the whole screen.
The peel I leave behind is messy,
for those I leave behind.
Old books worn by my eager fingers:
proof that I was once there.
Clothes frayed at the seams:
the loose threads emphasizing the lack of meaning.
Some of my dead skin sitting in the dust
of my worn white windowsill.
I can’t choose coffee, black
or with cream and sugar.
I can’t even choose coffee.
Did I want it to end?…no——-even though
I was tired. But, I didn’t have a choice.
This is just what is done, it just happens,
and I don’t feel a thing. My feelings
belong to the memories of those I left behind.
My body will be donated to the air
in grey flakes and small bits
of ivory bone.
I’ll touch down on the emerald grass,
the brown aging roots of a tree.
That’s where my spirit will be.
That’s all that is left of me.