on dusk and dying

i wanted this to be about glory.

about how bright things were for you before the end
about the swell of gold before the darkness came
about the sheer span of your warmth.

i wanted this to be a portrait that made you perfect.

bright, brilliant, bold.
goldleaf.
the kind of likeness they hang in a museum.
the kind of painting that makes things immortal.

instead, i'm forced to write about

the blistering swell of your agony
the dark blood that spilled across our canvas sky
that the warmth was actually fever,
(but that you were so, so cold)

that the sun disappeared
behind a drug-induced fog
that you were never awake
and only barely remembered my name.


the only consolation

is that the coming darkness will obliterate everything.
and while it will take you from us,
it will also take you
from all the pain you had to face
at the end.