the grim reaper has feelings.

i am writing nothing. i am thinking
about the shadows that the lamp
casts on your face and how the
shape of your lips reminds me of
soft soap.

this is no longer nothing, and now
i am thinking about cars with
backseats full of things no one needs
and how among those things i
saw a sketchbook. and i tried to
resist the urge to pick it up and
draw your hand, palm up to the sky,
holding rain. draw it while the car
sped to somewhere i don't know,
driven by someone i don't know.

i might have at one point said that
love is as strong as death, maybe
stronger. that i imagine a black
figure in a white tie holding a cigarette
at a graveyard and thinking, it
would not be so bad to die. thinking, i
would be buried between my parents, lie
between them like i would on their
large bed when i was small. squeeze
between them and tell them of my
nightmares. except there would be no
more nightmares, ever, and they would
say, we missed you. turn your face to
the sky and breathe out.