My Beloved, I Wish You Death

My beloved, I wish you death.

You told me age is wisdom.

That is, until it isn't

but instead, just a loss of memory and vision 

followed by grieving fate that no one mentions.

Against the window, I weep at your silhouette

shadow of the one who never took help, and yet

that's all you have left;

like a betrayal of yourself.

My original safety, now unsettling skin 

stretched across fragile bones, too thin.

Where the familiar smell of Colombian 

cigars and coffee once blended in 

is now a gag of vitamins. 

As you put your hands on your head

in confusion

"I wish you were dead, "

sighed intrusion.

I wish I had stronger validity 

for this shame 

besides saving you from fragility 

as my claim.

It's a bit selfish

and it may be rude

but I resent that your breath 

trembles through a tube.

It sounds ruthless 

but the truth is... 

this hurt as a tangible handful of dirt 

would be better than watching your ghost on earth. 

Why do these morbid thoughts curse me

as my fingers yearn to give you mercy?

Yes, arrangements would be less stress

than living this truth, in which I confess,

I love you 

therefore,

I wish you death.