Katrina Kaye

I call him and ask him to come over.
I tell him I miss his arms around me,
say I need comfort. Tell him:

I don’t want to be alone.

It isn’t a lie, but if I am honest
I should have said:

I don’t want to die alone.

I know,

we all die alone,

I know.

I don’t tell him about the pills
rotting in my gut. I don’t mention
the poison seeping into blood stream,

but I do say tonight would be the last time.
I tell him I will never call again,

I will never ask again.

He doesn’t make me talk when
he comes into the apartment.
He lets me lace my arms around him
and just hold on,

so supported,

so secure,

my knees go soft,
but he doesn’t let me fall.

Not once, not even a little.
He never let me fall.

He follows me as I stumble into
my room and climb into bed, and
lay down. He lets me curl to his side.

We slept in this position
for a thousand years one summer.
But that was a different season.

I ask him to tell me a story. 
I listen to the drone of his voice.
I am fading. 

I tell him:

I’m sorry for being so selfish.

He says:

that’s alright.
We all need someone sometime.

I tell him to leave after I fall asleep.
He assures me, he will.
Asks me about locking the door,
but I am becoming still.

I sulk beside him
feeling the rhythm of his breath
and wait for my heart to stop.