A Hundred Years

I cannot stay.

With you is life and never presume I want that.

I wish. 

Death spurns us because we are not wise.

It swishes past with it's cloak of scorn

and looks down it's nose at our mortality.

I breathe with you and feel judged.  

Somehow the closer you are,

the hollower it is, 

until

the void (not made of hunger) increases and pushes you beyond.

I hope.

Of course I will weep. 

Despair does define us.