non omnis moriar

these empty rooms,
if they were to break
into a thousand tiny pieces
would fit into my cupped hands
and i would eat.
the way diego consumed frida.
in death and life. burning.

and the root-fingers torn
from the shifting ground would cling
somewhere that wasn't mine
leaving all that was
to speak in a language
lacking ambiguity.

the sun would crown
your noble head as it always did
beneath a changing sky
whose clouds are forever
in conspiracy with feelings.

and if not now
then looking back we'd know
the dancing was exquisite.




*



"non omnis moriar"
(i shall not completely die)
~ attributed to horace