You fed
and quenched
the body
of our
friendship
with flamin hots
and off-brand
sodas.
it feasted
on cream-dollopy
scrumptous
french pastries,
slathered
sizzling bacon
strips in
mayonnaise
before shoving
its mouth full
of indulgence.
now it’s having
heart-pain
under left
arm pit, and
asking us to
write it’s will.
it wanted
us
to know,
“you’ve got
to die of
something…
..why not
make it
something
you love.”
—
we’ve left it,
phone off
the hook;
A bandage
over
vital organ
failure,
to die, only
where it lived.
