Before We Die
The debts pile up like dinner plates—
each conversation I cut short to check my phone,
each time I said I’m fine and meant I’m drowning,
each kiss I gave with only half my mouth.
My mother calls on Tuesdays.
I let it ring through twice before I answer,
already calculating how many minutes
before I can say I have another call.
There’s a friend I keep meaning to forgive
for some small crime I can’t quite remember—
something about a birthday, or a slight,
or the way she laughed at the wrong moment.
I owe my body an apology
for every meal I ate while scrolling,
every hour of sleep I traded
for the blue glow of strangers’ opinions.
The dog looks at me with those eyes
that say you promised we’d go to the park,
and I say tomorrow, which is what I said
yesterday, and the day before that.
Before we die, they ask, will we have settled our accounts?
But I’m still here, spending love like it’s infinite,
like there will always be another Tuesday,
another tomorrow, another chance to pay attention.????????????????
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