Tell me beautiful untrue things
like it'll be okay.
Or anything less cliche then this.

I don't want this to be the end of
everything we never finished.

But it is.
That's the way this works.
I say we could have been more,
you tell me that we'll never be anything
worth writing home about.

Hospital gowns don't hide much,
do they.
I know it's the track marks and bloody sores
you can't tear those lovely eyes off of,
not the body you used to touch so tenderly.

At least I'll be skinny.
Nothing like a good ole' unknown contagion
to make you shed pounds like skin cells.

Don't tell me it's not funny,
when you're dying, you can call the shots.