“Tell me about a time you’ve almost died.” She says,
and I stop to think. “But there are four.” I start to say.
“So tell me one.” She insist, so I tell her three.
The first: a fight outside a bar, the second: hit by a
speeding car, the third: some pills to heal the scars.
She nods, mumbles Mmhm, and I tell her it was quite a week.
Don’t laugh, my Rani Raja, look past the jokes and fumes
to see I’m smoldering. Quietly, tirelessly, I’m burning silently,
like the ash of this cigarette or my heart when it hears
you speak. The fourth time is you, each time with you,
I die and am renewed.