Unless
we die together,

perhaps in the freak derailment
of our city bound train
rushing to see
Rockefeller’s Tree
or
in some epidemic
spawned by too much ebola
in the romaine,

then

one of us,
made widower or widow
by an inevitable,
must stand up,

alone,

to the sorrow of knowing
our beloved morning snuggle
and our struggle
to squeeze in just
one more minute
under the warm quilt,

(made an all the more alluring
paradise
by our bodies
fueling the fire within us
by simply laying still
and feeling what might
be coming next…)

is no more.

Replaced,
by a molten memory in muscle and mind,
always burning,
always unquenchable,
mornings awakening
becoming the menace
nightmared
in last nights darkness.

How
macabre,
and,
beautiful,

to pray for the boon of

a passing plague
or
a crack in a track

to fling us into faiths
electric-star-sparked-universe,

together.