Poetry

I question Death, 

We sit together on park benches 

I tell him what air tastes like 

He explains what it’s like to be 

still 

and what true silence sounds like 

Death asked one day 

why I don’t hate him  

as much as the rest. 

Looking deep into those 

black sockets— 

more beautiful than the stars. 

You were the only one 

who was ever 

truly honest…