When the young die, there are no estate sales.
There are just balloons excreting helium. They waltz with
streamers across the bottom of a room.
Whenever I die, I'll hibernate. I eat in preparation for this.
Whenever I'm dead, I'll still worry about dying.
I'll still think I didn't wind up,
didn't lick you enough,
didn't crack when I was sad.
No comments:
Post a Comment