Last Day
i knew tomorrow wasn't to be.
in the fleeting daylight i had left
i sang. and i wrote letters. smelled the rain.
brushed my hair. i looked through old photos and i
told my mother i missed her.
sometimes i forgot that i was dying.
and even so, with nothing to give or lose or feel or fear
i couldn't tell him that it hurt less to die than to
wish i could have been loved by him.
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