Dormiveglia

by Steven J. Serafiani

I commune daily with the notion that I am already dead;
that these waking moments are just some sort of remnant consciousness.
That appeases as
I already am consumed by the idea of death.
So this theory, if fact,
is like eating a bowl of cherries without worrying about pits.
It lodged
I keeled
crumpled
held my lover’s hand
and hopefully whispered something incoherent yet wondrous.

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