its a small
Time
to sit and 
make excuses


I'd ask
If you mind
but your silence 
it speaks
speaks volumes
Volumes I can put 
Up on shelves, to collect dust

In your small
Little voice
You sing hallelujah
Holding the remnants of my obituary
In your delicate little hands
It feels wrong
Feels off, like the scene of 
Of our imperfect little crime
A memoir of someone 
Not yet passed
but gone all the same

Clip out the section
Paste it into
That dusty little
Scrap book
That you've collected
Of you and me

The pages curling at the edges
Folding over on themselves
Thumbed through and crinkled

And remember me
Like reading my 
Obituary