when the man
comes to see what's killed you,
he leans over
your bent body on the street
draped in the glow of red
light,
and you look into his eyes.
you see the worry
on his young face.
the concern.
you want to tell him, it's okay.
you've done nothing
wrong.
this is life.
the end of life.
there is nothing right or
wrong to say.
just carry me from here.
take me,
peacefully
to my grave. worry is for
the day.
not night.
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