is in the hospital, on life support.
You probably think that I should be
with her, instead of writing bad conceptual poetry:
it’s Valentine’s Day, after all.
I bet you take me for that one big cloud
on a sunny day, just a massive asshole
without the capability of living like a decent human being.
That I don’t care.
But I do.
She used to tell me that she had an anxiety
surronding her final days.
The tubes. The monitors. The thoughts
She made me promise that I’d never visit her
while she was in that state. She didn’t want me
to get lost in the percentages of whether she would die
holding my hands or recover
and have tea on the stove in a few weeks.
In her mind, there wasn’t anything honorable
to be gained by standing beside the dying.
was a far worse
way to spend your day, than writing bad conceptual poetry.