you’re not dead yet

i burned my tongue on spaghetti tonight
and you’re not dead yet
i sleep on my side
but i plan out your funeral

and everyone acts like you’ll come home
when 360,000 babies are born each day
but she died and you could, too
but you’re not dead yet

i go to sleep
grateful for another day with you
and wake up each morning
confused that you’re still kicking

because you’re not dead yet
but every day, every hour, every minute
i think you might be dying

and it’s a heavy kind of breathing
i must heave in and out
when every breath i assume is your last

but you’re not dead yet
and i love you (and you and you and you)
so much

and a small piece of hope
dangles in front of me
and i play with it for a minute
and then i crush it with my bare hands

even though
you’re not dead yet

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