razorshimmy

I'm laying, dying.
There's a wound on me somewhere, though for the life of me I can't think of where it is, how it got there. Can't tell you how to cover it. It just bleeds across the porcelain, not the perfect circular or ovoid pool that it might be in some dream, but snowflakeing out across each tiny, invisible fracture in the tile.
I realize that you never want so badly as when you're about to die. I want so much. I want to relive tastes I remember vividly, and live all those that never played across my palate. I want to touch, and be touched, by the softest and harshest textures. I want to see the greens and blues of the world, and blacks and whites of everything that sits outside of them. I want to do drugs and drink poison.
But I never did. It's too late.
I realize, because I'm wanting so much, that life doesn't really flash before your eyes when you die. You just remember everything from your life that you want, alongside all the things your life left out. And you want those too.
Most of all, as lay here, I want you. Every dream I had, every experience I longed for, you sat at the back of and waited for me to find you, to touch you. To stop wanting and start experiencing. But I only wanted. And only want now.
As I die.