I have not forgotten that the steady tone of the heart monitor exists.
It is the beckoning call for those
whose lives have been extinguished,
a siren ignored by the ears it falls upon
and answered by those who can’t hear it.

For now Death burns with anticipation,
hiding in smoky shadows
and watching the conflagration before him.
He lingers there,
waiting as my charred heart continues
to expel ash and fire with every stroke,
heroically providing ample heat to sustain me.

My eyes following a light
that leaps on the screen next to my bed,
I cringe that the same heat has fueled more passionate fires.
Ones of debilitating love,
obsessive exploration,
and the crippling belief
that somehow my fuse would burn slower than the fire behind it.

I can’t suppress the feeling of relief,
stemming from the absence of relatives and renounced friends
whose transparent, reassuring words would be expelled
from their lungs with breaths of hot air
only to be replaced by a bit more of the dwindling oxygen in my room.