its in the way the tips of his toes ache
and in the way the balance of his mind
is no longer in tune with the balance of
his body - its in the way that he looks at
the rain outside and in the way his breath
fogs up the window, its in the way that his
eyes are grey and dull now and in the way
his interest in existence has dulled.
it is not the way his fingers ache as he picks
up the pins, it is not the way he allows the
cool winter breeze to kiss his skin, it is not
the way the next of kin breathes his last breath
instead of the way he wants to be an island;
it is not the way his lips are chapped against the
breeze, it is not even the way he drinks red river
in hopes to soften the inevitable blow.
at sunset he suddenly emerges with grace and
breaks the barriers between reality and fiction,
in the same way that he broke his heel over
burning coals, in the same way he broke his heart
over a searing pan, in the same way that differences
between him and god were listed by the dozens.
at sunrise he suddenly falls apart and does not
know exactly why, in the same way he does not
know the amount of times he is required to hop
on one leg to get to the grocery store, in the same
way he does not know how often he has said 'fuck'
in his life, in the same way that he does not know
why his name is abraham and not isaac.
at some point during the day, he suddenly finds
himself realizing his place in life, but it is not the
way he talks to new people in his mind, it is not
the way he finds himself lost in the reflection tittering
away in the water, it is not in the way the sun is
lost in his heartbeat: it is not in the way he dies
and dies again with every moan.
at death he is given solace in a multitude of platitudes,
and though his mind comprehends only the vibrations
and not the sounds, it is in the way hands touch his
cold skin, it is in the way the vibrations are light and
not heavy with the guilt of god, it is not in the way his
broken ankle is remembered as the sunset against an
ever darkening midnight sky