I am too busy to die

I am far too busy,

This, is more than an inconvenience,

This monumental final voyage is more than an interuption,

It is a cyclone, tearing through our homes,

I am trying to grab and hold on, weight things down,

Not knowing what will be lifted and lost,

What will be left.

The aftermath, a gaping whole, memories retwisted,

The story will stay the same but the narrator is different,

Facts become fictions.

I don’t care if it is a lie, Mum.

You can tell it anyway you want and I would listen,

I wouldn’t get annoyed.

I’m going to miss you so much I say,

My eyes blurry with inescapable love and pain,

So much pain.

No tears you say, as I plumped your pillows.

I reach in, try to gently pull out the deep and meaningful,

something jolts and you are upright,

Opening your phone.

Why can you only transfer £2k at a time?

I don’t know. I say.

Unsure how we are talking about the most material thing,

When I know you are surfing the slippage everytime you close your eyes.