my mother makes quilts she gives them to people she loves she works on them for hours on end growing them, getting to know them, every stitch she diligently picks patterns matches solid colors that compliment the pattern on the opposite side chooses a theme that suits the person who will receive it watches true crime while she works the dogs lay at her feet while she does so her children weave in and out of her room every so often the cats perch on a nearby ledge to be near her she has so much on her mind always she sews herself into her work and then relinquishes them unto others

the lives those quilts must lead the things those quilts have seen the love those quilts have felt

how many people has her love warmed on a cold night?

Sat in my dining room chair, you sat in yours, I watch you down the whole thing in what seems like two, maybe three gulps. Alcohol is a task for you- something to get done; finish. You never savor it.

Wiping tears from me eyes before they can reach the apples of my cheeks, I let a quivering, small smile stretch as far as it could across my flushed face. Admittedly, it didn't stretch very far. The corners of my mouth were the only parts upturned.

"Are you crying?" you ask, worried. "What's wrong?" you still sound so compassionate.

"I did it," my voice wavers as I admit this "It's done."

"What do you mean? What's done?" You seem so far away.

"Yesterday- over the phone. This is the end. This is our- this is- we can be together- like you said-" I'm trying to recall the events of yesterday as a whole. Everything has been fuzzy lately. Has it? Maybe for a week. No- two to three weeks. I don't know. My head hurts. You look sick.

"You know very well that's not what I meant. It's going to be okay. People break up all the time. In the end," My ears are ringing. "this will all seem like it's lifetimes away. You'll have someone else, maybe I'll still be alone but we'll be happy. Happier- apart. Safer. That's what we talked about." No. This isn't a what I heard- what you said.

I already did it. There's no undoing it, is there? I could call an ambulance, they would rush in and take us apart, they would pump your stomach. The police would take your statement once you were conscious. You wouldn't understand. You would even press charges, I bet. I would go to jail. No, prison. Jail and then prison. I would rot. You would live a life where I was just an event that you survived. You'd be a brave victim and I would be just another deranged ex. You would never love me again. Not in the way I love you.

"Well..." I speak as I breathe out a deep inhale. "At least... can we talk about boundaries? What's next? What- I can never see you again?"

I stall. Within the next hour or two, you'll be gasping your last breaths. This will be our last misunderstanding. I will bring us to the commitment I know we both want, deep down. You may not see it yet but in the afterlife, whatever that means for you and me, we will exist as one. No bills, pets, jobs, groceries, landlords, friends, or family to weigh us down. Just you, and me. Our spirits in the vast afterward. You'll forgive me. This is partially your doing, you know that. I don't feel well. I don't feel well. You'll forgive me.

Scurrying across the road, I am repulsed by my instinct to scurry. My legs carry me in an automatic rhythm, away from my friend who lay on his side in the street. He's dead. Fish, I mean. You know when you... you can sort of tell. You can tell. The beast came swiftly and then was gone again. It changes forms each time. Sometimes it is big and the color of after-lunch sunshine. Sometimes it is quiet and small, it's outsides white like the springtime clouds. I'm rarely caught around them, I stick to walls and branches and bushes. Fish didn't. He avoided death so many times, far more than nine I would say. I had almost begun to believe in his immortality too. But now he is sprawled out with his paws criss-crossed and I am on the neighbors roof. Alone, but alive.

balmy skin foreign pillow shirt twisting around and squeezing my throat sheets are one too many days unwashed body, crinkles and contorts try finding peace on my back my side my belly

mattress pushes against me in protest we fight through the night

waking in a pool of thick malaise body is made of dry, old wicker iron teeth lock together creaking and groaning and sighing i arise

I hastily sat another bite upon my tongue. My mind, confused, searched. My tongue fell into emptiness like a foot searching for a stair in darkness. My jaw ground the rocks in my maw to gravel. I swallowed.

Nothing.

I was not sure whether my tongue or brain were betraying me. Sitting, still, I try to know whether taste ever existed at all; Whether anything ever tasted like anything. I attempted to recall what bread or meat or broth was to me.

Nothing.

It never did come back, or maybe it hadn't ever been with me.

I suppose now I only wish my memory to be more vivid- To remember what exploring each day was like when I could taste it.