hallucinations: sixty-two

Oh instant death--

a silent POP

to stardust;
I've died with you before.

I didn't weep as you were

absorbed into bright night and

only part of my name
remained as delicate specks

of familiar whispers--

I remembered breathing.

My lungs were no longer mine.

They were in a box

with shrinking angles, spiraling
to disappear beneath a flap
of sky.

I gasped as your voice

tunneled from me.

I reached with arms too long.

My wrists were endless

and throbbing,

my fingers fluttered in constant flow and space

meeting nothing;

when I opened my eyes

we were departing from a kiss

holding your hands in mine

and I smiled

and you smiled

and death inked a new page.