dead/alive on november 14th

In 12 days it will be November 14th

I have no reason to care about November 14th

and I have every reason to write a poem about it.

Maybe by November 14th, I won't drive 70 miles an hour

past the gun shop on Route 2

waiting for a bearded man to pull a bullet on me out the window.

By then I will sleep under dead branches in frosted fields

like I did with so much joy when I was just a little younger.

The novelty of it now requires the level of intention

that I'd dedicate to living my last day on earth, before I push myself

into a fatal gorge out of my own free will. In my head

intention rhymes with death

and now that I don't want to die,

I've never been more scared of it.

It can't haunt me if I waste my time like I have all the time to waste

if I disassociate and forget to find joy in singing our song in the rain

on Halloween. With my best friend. 

To recognize joy is to move with intention is to acknowledge death.

I do not want to die.

I do not want to keep living

without being present to everything good.

In 12 days, I want to sing in the rain on November 14th

and feel every bit of it like my Last Day on Earth.

I want to feel it so much

that I'd be okay if it really Is.