The sun will consume us in a few billion years.
Gas billows blow across space,
so quick in an instant we won’t have time to look up
those last unsaid words;
The gray image is my innards,
A hole where the cancer used to be.
It is relief
It is hope
It is life.
We dig them up in the deserts.
All the things that grew, walked and flew
That roared in the darkness; all they ate;
Coupled, shameless, the parts of exultant being.
They, too, blasted to dust.
Will they laugh at us when we join them
Unable to change fate?
Your eyes were dark that first time
Unfulfilled with a first kiss.
The grey image shows the hole of what’s taken;
It does not show the touch of your mouth.
You thought in jest that I made fun of your hair.
Sighs come before screams.