Death, my distant lover— loves me, cannot have me. Yearns but cannot reach, wants me like an alcoholic aching for one sip, forever relapsing. It looks so frightening, like a storm. I stand inside its center, aching, eyes wrapped in longing, soaked in sorrow, a soul alive, already mourning. Do I not want it too?— Yes, as warmth in winter’s cold. Do I not crave it too?— Yes, as stars ache for a gaze. Not one morning passes without my cry for its touch, yet every dawn I rise breathing. Death is the lovely moon. I, the burning sun not yet gone. I wait for the eclipse— take me instead. Cursed with a life that refuses to fade.