With Deepest Sympathy

by Corinne Caraway

You bring me something alive 

to let me know you’re dying.

“To remember me by,” 

you whisper, as if I could forget. 

My thumb slips against 

the thorn of your sympathy,

and all of a sudden 

I can’t stop bleeding. 

We should’ve had more time. 

Instead your hand shakes

while you offer condolences 

over promises that will

fail to be kept in the end.

I suppose I shouldn’t 

hold it against you though,

the way you’re withering

under the weight of these days.

You said they would catch up with me. 

All my stumbling home without you, 

and the commitment to feigning 

ignorance about the smattering

of bruises across my neck and thighs. 

How each night I peel away 

another piece of your embrace 

in exchange for the arms of 

someone else you used to know.

I ask what it’s like to die a thousand times. 

“Interesting”, you say, “because 

it’s never been the same way twice.” 

What you don’t say is, “Devastating, 

because there’s no way to stop it.”

No matter how hard you try,

you get reduced to a memory;

something everyone ends up

wishing they could take back. 

You level me with a fading stare. 

And I know this is it for us, 

our one last song and dance.

You pull me into what’s left of you, 

and let me stain you red.

“To remember me by,” I whisper,

but praying you’ll forget. 

How I hastened the loss of you, 

just to be alone again.