I want to climb on top of that flag-pole

And fling myself on the ground below

My body spattering among parked cars,

my blood mixing in the rain drenched street.

Sometimes that is all I want, to embrace

the end, to accept that this IS the end, although

it is nothing like I craved or imagined my life

to be. I used to think myself a fighter, yet

now I find myself giving up. All too easily,

the threads that bind me shredding away

one by one, as they did when you lay dying

one ragged breath at a time. You loved to say

“it is not the end of the world”. Then why

does it feel like it is? I must be one of the few

who think in sepia tomes of the past, who see

fire as freedom. There is no fire stronger

than the one that swallowed you, nothing

that burns as much, ashes cooled by mid-summer

rain. This is me moving on, alternating

between grief and release in morbid monologues.

I hope it rains tonight, I will howl

at the moon I will not see, I will rage

at the moon I know is there. And I will feel.

I will feel as though I’m talking to you.