I want to smell the sweetest, in death.

I want the opulence of mourning, on the wrists of all my friends.

I want frankincense, resin,

rose and hair on their tongues,

a placate to remember

all I was,

all they are,

all we’ll never be,

all we strive to be,

and all we’ll never see.

So many poems make mention of mouths, saliva, tongues and tears,

as if we have a grasp on any of these things,

as if we are anything but these constant fluids dispersing our body, small monsoons

tiny torrents

weeping coffins

sealed

dispersed

and eaten.

In death, I want your hands scooping sweets into that tempestuous mouth.

Feed me by feeding you.

Love me, by loving you.

Forgive me.

Forgive you.