He follows me with his eyes, but cannot see—
begs for water, but cannot drink.

Dying is the relentless movement of a body
through space and time,

along with giving birth, making love,
laughing until we cry, or drowning,

a maelstrom exerting its promise upon our lonely, hopeful hearts,
our groaning sinews, our yearning teeth.

When I climb into bed and put my arms around him,
he grows calm, and we rock together in the ancient seas

until his last breath flows out,
and I fall through my mortal dream of living forever,

my body mine to keep.