Image: Aging Hourglass by Muskan Srivastava

 

She is cold on the ground, I think.

Her body has not reached decomposition, yet

And that is good for the funeral director.

He won't have to pick up her pieces.

But I have to pick up his pieces

And my own

Because we are left alone.

The same apartment, never warm,

But now chilled by Death's touch.

It's okay because I'm numb

And he might be, too

And, of course, so is she.

 

Senescence, in essence, is aging.

She will degrade and fade, but she will not age

Because the pills in her stomach prevent it.

By definition, her "condition or process of deterioration with age"

Will not happen.

Yet, he and I will gray, lest it betray

Our immortal words.

 

"One, two, three, four..." All the way to thirty.

Check for breathing.

"One, two, three, four..." With each count, age a little more.

911 says, "Keep counting aloud."

"I can't."

911 says, "Please count out loud."

"I can't." And the tears run down his face.

Every second, so slow, ages us.

We might die before the paramedics arrive

Because stress weathers the body.

This must be Death's duress.

Trying to get us out of this mess, he will count.

The police officer will recognize us

And then she will say, "She didn't make it."

 

Senescence, in essence, is the process of aging

And I think I have aged a thousand years

While she will age no more.