I Want You Immortal Until I Am Not
for gerald
as you kiss my neck,
your death haunts me. like ear to earth,
my head meets your chest. i hear the rumblings,
the pulse of temporary, the exhale of aliveness. in a sick
daydream, you are a cloud, cold and wet and out of reach. if i go
first, i want you to be happy, you say, and i imagine myself kissing
the barista at our coffee shop. she is fleshy and breathy and awake
and i unroot from the daydream before i forget about you. if you are
earth, open up so i can return to you. our ashes as proof of a burning
love. from dust to nest the insects to dust to feed the grass. i don’t want
to think of your absence if there is no room for me there. wait. don’t
go. kiss me until we are ghosts. nothing will scare us again. not even
tomorrow. breathe in. i would still love you even if you were wind.
Ari B. Cofer (she/they) is a poet, writer, and author of Paper Girl and the Knives That Made Her and Unfold: Poetry and Prose (Central Avenue Publishing). Her poetic focus centers on mental health advocacy.