The blank stare of walking over the line
haunts me even now, your death, your trip.
It was all in Technicolor…for some reason
black and white seemed right for dying,
but I have no say in such matters.
Hollywood knows best for this kind of passing.
You were there under white sheets staring at me,
gulping for life, it never came. So here
we meet as you walk into the ethereal wind of god.
I sift through my pockets for car keys.
I walk away into the darkest of nights,
another night of living. The trees groan.