death imposes upon my attempt at life, is rebuffed

I am too

alive

for this place.

Death

has curled up,

cozy

in the corner.

It decays quietly,

pervading the air

with the stench

of stale despair,

coating 

us

with grayness,

stripping

us

of hope. 

My blood

pulses

warm,

heavy,

deep—

my veins

are bursting

red

with it.

I

want nothing more

than:

To live.

To touch,

and be touched,

in the simplest,

(run fingers down my skin!)

in the most

profound

(teach me penetrable truths!)

of ways.

To think,

to feel,

to know,

to want,

to desire,

to love,

to live.

Oh, to live!

The wrinkled

are storied,

past tattooed

on their arms,

liver-spotted.

“The End”

is coming

soon.

Their breaths

calculated,

slow—

sucked from

them,

leaves them

hacking up 

memories

&

regrets.

I breathe,

too.

It is dank

and sour

upon the

mid-morning

light.

They are almost

gone.

And

here am

I,

wanting

nothing more

cliché

than

to live.