Death is on the line.
It could be incredibly painful, like a birth.
It could be soft and slow, like a lifelong distraction.
The fact that it’s an end makes it almost imaginary, as in “The End.”
No more of this, whatever this was.
No more awake-ness.
No more noticing – as if you noticed anything.
Boy, but when you did – man, it sparkled.
The lowest and the highest of things.
They pulsed and danced as if animated by secret demons.
Ugly bugs became charming.
Every fat woman on the street turned queen of all.
Every exchange of words a confirmation of the promise.
A simple promise that you’d get a long slow sip of this dazzling crack in the blackness, this blistering show of giggle between two ends of eternal boredom, this utterly important unimportance between foggy somethings.
Two poles on an electrical gap, ignited just for you.
Just for this absurd show.
For that alone, you should be on your knees and crying.
Crying for the hell of it, for the heaven of it, and for the oddest of thanksgiving back to the self who saw.