we are never sure about death. 
though death reveals us to our most self 
we are never sure
could I ever make a friend out of death? 
does death deserve to make a friend out of me? 
my kind and still beating heart
could I hand it to her willingly?
could I bind myself to change before it binds itself to me?
could I ever get ahead of death?
meet her at the gate
welcome her into my home

don’t we all imagine lovers made out of deaths
as if we could gather the lost pieces and sew them back into a wholeness
or resile deaths stern ways from our practices
as if we could ever find our heart placed back together
death at each considerate/delicate seam 
could we ever imagine
giving ourselves dutifully over?
could I ever guide my hand to match hers?

I know my death will come, and so with each day I carve out a small place for her
I grow flowers to harvest for my homecoming
I remember myself to be walking towards her company
I am humbled by this knowing

may each day be a dedication to my death, a letter home. 
may every day be a celebration of this life, a regular survival. 

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