I know that she will outlive me.
When I take my final breath,
when my ribs start to cave in,
and when my spine starts to break,
and my skull falls to pieces,
she will fill her lungs again.
She will exhale what is left of me
into your mouth,
and you will disregard its bitter taste.

She will stand up straight
and watch
as I begin to decay,
and I will sit here
patiently
waiting for you to notice my absence.
I will smile
sweetly
as you pawn after her steps,
careful not to influence the prints from her feet.
I will be the post
that holds you up
as you begin to fall harder.

But my death will not be by accident
or disease;
it will be heart failure
and she is the donor that never gave.
The saddest part is that I am not angry with you.
I am not angry with her.
How could I be?
How can the sick
haste against the healthy,
if the healthy never knew you were sick?

How can the ill
hate the thriving,
if they cannot care for you?

 So still I stand here
taking in any illness that you may conceive
and add it to my ever-diminishing life span
so that you may keep up with her.
I will let her outlive me
so that she will not mourn her loss of you
but relish in your loss of me.