Tonight, I’ll visit Death.
For days I’ve sensed the arrival of this juncture but only realised the precise time a few minutes ago. Knew it as I climbed the last flight of stairs, ten steps in all – a countdown i counted… ten, nine… and then so soon- three, two, one-
-to where I’m sliding my guilty key into the iron gate’s lock.
The rooftop is my special place. I will miss my stony friend. A glitter of stars ensure that I know which way to fall. The wind tugs at my clothing and not wanting to deny my final lover, I unclothe and I’m given a flesh suit of goose bumps in return. Owing to a fat moon and taller buildings, a witness of shadows is in place.
I walk like a sloth. Not because of doubt but as a result of wanting detail to adorn my final memory.
The concrete is cold and rough. My soles fill the gaps; no doubt granted red pin-spots on their skin as evidence of passage. My toes are widespread. The air massages coolly between them. My ankles are stiff, my knees the same. No oil will help; nevertheless I grow no fear that my legs will be unable to walk me to my designation. Of that I’m certain. My scrotum is tight. My penis hides so that I cannot see it through ginger, pubic hair unless I bend. I do not bend. My stomach coils. It’s the cold and not my ulcer that makes it so. My nose is barricaded by snot and so it’s my mouth that invites all the gases and ejects those that it does not like. My hairy chest swells with air and pride. I finally know what I’m doing. My hair, blonde and dirty, waves from my head. There is slight regret that I’m not shaved, for in weather like this the sensation would have been likened to the pleasure of a stranger’s fingertips caressing my scalp. My eyes widen with tingling knowledge of where I’m taking them.
It’s a slight down-slope to the thigh-high wall. On this storm-free night, it is I, and not rainwater, that is directed.
I have arrived.
My feet may dangle but the the wall gives chair to my arse.
The moment is not yet for I must dispossess that which I’m not allowed. I have a story to sacrifice. By all means, clog your ears with wax. I strongly recommend that you do. It is not that I wish to move my salty lips and snaky tongue. As poet I’m bound by, and obligated to, darkness … and Death is patient with certainty.
Consequently, I address Love… and you who reads this letter…