Sort of terrifying ...

                 It's

             sort

           of

      terrifying

      to love life

                         like

                      I do.

      I didn't     used

         to mind   the

          thought

                 of

              letting

                 go.

A moment was so beautiful,

but was just another one:

enough, or one-too-many,

but never one-too-few.

I didn't care, meeting you,

whether you'd say 'yes' or 'no.'

Just asked because I needed

to keep asking—

to fill my moments up—

and hadn't failed with you yet.

But you liked me and, given

company, I didn't want to go:

I'd fall asleep in a laugh with

you; you, kissing me gapless,

would say, “you have to breathe,”

but I'd stay attached, anyway.

I'd imagine dying, again, as I do,

in a car crash or a stupid fight.

But as much as that used to make

me feel light, now I find it taxing.

I can't see growing tired of this; of

looking forward to moments I'll catch.

But if I do, I hope I'll be old and low –

a waxy wick, flagging blue and slow,

                                             remembering   its

                                                                             match.