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."
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.