From the collection '8 poems about me and you'.
Ninety-nine
of the infinite number of ways I might die
the spectre whose shape fills my deathly dull days
the ritual I'm drawn to despite what I've said
my stoic assertion 'I'm fine on my own'
my penchant for wishing to leave with a bang
involves only me warm in sun on my bed
a view with soft sleep and no pain
and the touch of another (i'll take it all back)
to not be alone at the end.
