I am losing my hair. I bet it’s more comforting
than combing the tumbleweed that it was. I am leaving

for now. I bet it has just started, as I lose
appetite for another day getting torn away

from the calendar. By then, I would be gone.
You would have stopped me by leaving

note after note, the secret more unfolding
that takes away hope. It’s as if I am warned

to die. But here you are, with your hands
feeling the heat from my cheeks. I will leave now

so I can go home, and we can celebrate
with the medicine that you bought.

[for Mama Precy, who is always alive in memory]


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