When I die, will you wail and cry?
Or grin and do the dance of the Beagle?
Will you touch my skin to feel cold setting in,
As my blood is congealing.
Will you raise my lids to view pupils wide
verifying my organs stopped working?
Now on the phone, will you pretend to sad moan,
While holding in a giggle and wriggle?
As I float to my deserving place,
My spirit cannot inform you, my Beloved’s face.
You will follow me as if we’re tethered.
By infection I was claimed, no visuals to say,
that you shouldn’t have touched me at all.