They tell me I’m dying, the white-coat boogie men.
I close my eyes, letting their drip, drip, drip of consolation take me into revelry.
The smell of crushed grass the morning we first made love. The field of wild spring flowers.
The look on your parents’ faces when you told them I would be your wife.
Our trips and tangles, our sweet embraces, that little fairy dream we had in Monterrey.
Each year older together, deeper in love. And in lust. Oh, yes. I remember.
I feel your warm hands now, on my cold skin.
It’s time, my life.
Goodbye.
