Ninety-nine.

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.

Teresa.

... "I know writers don't like to talk about their projects until they're finished. Put to bed... isn't that how you say it?" William blushed and felt a prickle of sweat in the small of his back. What did she look like asleep he wondered? "So I won't be nosy as to what it's about. Unless you'd like to share?" She raised her immaculately tapered eyebrows. They wriggled almost into the shape of an italicised question mark. A mocking tone; or Teresa was genuinely interested. He couldn't tell. Her eyes gave nothing away, were like glass buttons. And that innuendo, what's that all about?  He didn't dare answer his own thought in case he was wrong...

Experience.

The woman extended her lithe hand and gently clasped his swollen palm. She held it against her cheek. 'We're all dying,' she said, 'some more slowly than others.'  'The next person you see', I displayed to the man in a frenzy of swirling green neon letters, 'tell them that I asked you to remember and relay this episode so that you at least have a shared experience. I know how lonely it can get.'