you’re not dead yet

i burned my tongue on spaghetti tonight
and took a nice warm bath
and you’re not dead yet

i sleep on my side
and monitor your movements
but i plan out your funeral
even though you’re not dead yet

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

each night i’m grateful
i had another day with you
and i wake up each morning
confused that you’re still kicking
because you’re not dead yet

but every day, every hour, every minute, every second
i think you might be dying

and it’s a very hard kind of breathing
to heave in and out
when every breath i take i assume is your last
but you’re not dead yet

and a small piece of hope
dangles in front of me on a string
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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