I had tried to draw close to death's terrible proximity—holding my breath, widening the distance between us, banishing the ghost of writing from my head, severing the veins of blood—yet never once paying attention to any of it.
My eyes are growing dim—still, your face remains quite clear before them. In the scent of your body...all my plans slowly begin to dissolve.
Do you know how deeply I feel you in this moment? Tell me, how much anguish can be hidden in a farewell smile?
How long does it take for the final breath to reach the earth and merge with it? How much time passes after regret—before someone...draws a breath of relief, even after love's tremendous, ravaging blow?—Would a burnt body have turned to ash by then?
Fire-Born Doubt
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