Linger

We are strange and made of extremes

Like mud-filled patterns, boot-stomped trails

Aches following steps

Unnamed scratching beneath the surface

Hidden bridges and rope swings 

Staining each page

As my fingers linger on dog eared corners

We talk in conversations around each other,

Never direct,

Betraying our selfish,

Licking the razor and holding our breath for the endless moment before the skin separates and nerves tell the brain:

"This is pain. This is how you should feel."

This feels like a swan song,

And it reeks of borrowed time. 

I just want to know the ending. 

Do I go like a bird in midair?

Or a cat searching for a place to die?