Don't let's revere death and time, my love;
we shall have all of it at once,
more than our fill of nothing.
Did we not come from stars? Return me to stars.

When this is no longer me, it will weave
between the filaments of rugged taproots,
turning serrated leaves into lions' teeth
to bite the palms of careless caretakers.

Don't let's remember too loudly; the first time was enough
to learn, the second enough to crave understanding.
Details are lost on each iteration, but
we can content ourselves with a radial symmetry of feeling.

When I am no longer this, I will bleed
white sap onto anthills and amber wine
onto lovers' tongues in summer while they make wishes
and blow clocks across my crown.

Don't let's forget too gently; I would have it said
that everything to leave my grasp
did so covered in claw marks. Each gasp
will be fought for; strong enough to wish for the next.

When once is never, clouds of white
will catch an errant wind and carry my
myriad lost selves into pristine lawns
to trench in and stand, golden and mocking.

Don't let's miss living, my love;
I was not born to this blue and breaking world
so that I could keep from feeling.
Grief is the price of beauty.

When now is always, sharp blades will pass
across slender green throats, deep roots clinging intimately
to rich black earth, stars endlessly reborn, every wish granted, and ten thousand
cuts by the reaper will not end my laughter.

For my very persuasive and persistent friend.

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