Something feels fleeting.
The deaths and beginnings.
Watching the sun set from above.
While samsara cycles below.
Who am I to steal a seat in God’s balcony?
Who am I entitled to so many reincarnations in only one lifetime?
I’m a thief. A hoard of time. A cheater of perspective.
At the same and maybe for these very sins,
I am cursed.
I wake, every single morning and grab the hand of my lover.
Are you really here?
Are you still breathing?
Will this love story play out for one more day?
Or today will I depart?
Will I watch your grow miniscule in the maze mixed with the fog of my breath and own faint reflection?
The strain of ever reaching.
Cursed with the intimacy and familiarity of fleeting experience.
But as always a blessing inherent:
For this jagged appreciation was not the gift of cancer. Not left in loss. Not wept into helpless hands.
But just the rigid discipline of departure after departure after departure.
And the lucky birthmark of place and privilege.
I reach across the shame of this unfairness,
Put my hand on his heart and hear…
Yes. I am here.
Yes. I am still breathing.
Yes. Our love story will play out for, at least,
– and no promises –
one more day.
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