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.