Do you deserve eternity?

The kind that lives as the ink dries

and renders the sun   

blind to time.

Was it only I 

the victim – 

raised to burn 

for one who won’t return?

A fire crackles low 

as my skin melts into bone.

If I become a skeleton,

exposed upon a shrine,

can you light a candle 

and stay

on a Wednesday?

You’ll survive in the space 

between reality and regret 

for living on a page

revives you 

in a prison box.

They’ll place you

in a casket,

lowered to the ground.

And then – one day

they’ll know

all I ever wrote

glistened in the light 

but remained

my shrouded rite. 

Before the sun died, 

it lit a fire in your tomb 

You and I two glowing embers, 

waiting to be ash.