Every one of our friendships
Is a new life within our own life.
They’re planted, they sprout,
They blossom, and then they die,
From neglect,
Or otherwise from natural causes.

And with each of these tiny deaths,
We are set free a little bit more
To finally die ourselves,
Without
Fear
Of leaving behind these monuments of sadness,

Who visit graves, or don’t,

Or slosh out beer, or don’t,

Or lay in bed all day, or don’t.

So perhaps the trick to dying is to
First die many times

So that you don’t kill anyone else
In the process.