When I See My Own Death

Photo by Frankie Cordoba on Unsplash

The world feels fragile these days, perched on the ridge between destruction and revitalization. From a certain point of view, every day if life is perched on that same ridge.

(P.S. I am feeling better, and am now engulfed in moving apartments so will continue a mix of new and older breaths for a bit.)

These are the times when I see my own death:

On my morning run, crossing an empty-seeming road

where a hill dips below my line of vision.

After a shower, with the unencumbered view

of my fragile, aging skin.

At the top of Dog Hill, looking back

at my sliding footprints in the mud.

Curled around your body with my head on your knee

as you stroke my face with your long fingers.