Not Your Last

Do not hoard me
As if I were your last breath.
You will only force me
To prove again I am not.

You know the feeling.
I rush from your lungs
And in your certainty you
Feel your world slipping away.

Flashes of regrets and hopes
Hurry past in black and white.
You try to watch them like
Some ridiculous tennis match.

Even then you can't decide
If you want to grab
Them and weep on their
Beating breasts or go alone.

When the flashes slow
Like the final pops of
Already burnt popcorn, you wonder
If that's all.

"Becasue it seems unfinished,"
You comment, forgetting to gasp
And sighing instead.
Because it is.



Written October 15, 2007
Barcelona