breathe

You’d like that,

something permanent,

like your tattoos,

a plaque somewhere,

with your name on it,

a bronze bust of your face.

Yeah, you’d like that,

like the smell of your grandfather’s kitchen,

eating ziti and lamb meatballs,

because no one ever dies,

and you have a solid place to stand,

feet firmly planted on that old yellow linoleum.

You would love it,

something permanent,

a pillar, a rock, an afterlife,

but you’re plummeting in the dark,

and there’s nothing to hang on to,

a tranquil freefall,

faces change,

the mirror ages,

nothing lasts,

and, maybe,

there is no point,

you’re scared,

because your falling,

breathe

because

there