There will be time.
Time for you and time for me
before the taking of the final pill
that puts you to sleep
and sends me into another
dimension
filled with anxiety and longing.

There will be time.
Time to make love in between
breakfast and lunch
and dinner and breakfast.
You will hold me close and
whisper, “I hope your skin
stays tight against your bones.”

There will be time.
Time for purging and confusion.
For fumbling in the dark
and kissing lips that aren’t yours,
closing my eyes and pretending
they are.

There will be time.
Time for forgetting and remembering
in the middle of the night
after one night stands
with strangers that speak
fluent German.
When you pop sporadically
into my head,
and I crumble
under the weight of the love
that could have been.

There will be time enough at last
when I am dead.