The best advice I can give about falling
is about landing, the darkness says.
Darkness does not overtake light,
the clock says. Sounds of laugher
fading way, the season says. The body
doesn’t know how to lie, the lie says.
Misremembering is in itself revealing,
the lie says. I can only be reduced
to archives, alchemy says. I can only
know you through a combination
of letters, the unknown says. Is this
how it feels to die, the paradox asks?

There is little to nothing to say—
death can be throwing away love letters,
entering an exaggerated experience,
the last bite of an ice cream sandwich.

Originally published by: The Boiler