Dear immortal version of mine,
It is October again,and I have to go.
With a shovel in my hand and a cigarette between my lips,
I have to be a funeral director once again.
Maybe this time, with my lungs undone,
but I’ll still do it.
thus,even the gravestone will rail against me.
3:19 AM
23rd of January 2025.
Well, hi to the coffee again, and this time without regrets.
Letters are being written, and as usual, the postman is asleep, or he might be dead.
"The fine white hairs of your home stuck in my messy curls.
Home! Soon to be mine—actually ours.
My sunshine, it was me who decorated these pappus in my backyard.
Backyard, where I feel my toes untied and my eyes open. "
Someday,it will be a beautiful Wednesday.
Eyes will witness floods,screams here and there.
The whites I'll see all around,with my lowered gaze.
Will this cruel remember me after a few days?
"Me?
Us!
We promised, didn't we?
A hyphenated gravestone?
Yes,my beloved,we did."