The first time I died it was sunny.
I could see the sunlight streaming in
through the waves as I drowned.
I was not frightened, more curious.
It was so new—the swirls of the current,
the bending of morning light. I was only scared
after I learned I was still breathing.
Then I fought for my breath.
The second time I died, it was lonely.
I stood at the top of the cliff
and the earth did not swallow me.
I fell for months without hitting bottom.
It was only much later I noticed
that I was alive again.
There were more.
Some of the deaths I do not remember.
Some of the deaths do not leave.
They are never and always the same.
I love it, this life, how it insists on itself.
I died again tonight,
watched as the mask of me struggled
to stay in place. It did not shatter nor melt.
It was just gone, though already I sense
it has found its way back on.
There is no need for tombstones, no need
to memorialize. It’s the living that matters,
and with each death, it’s easier to see
how life is so (oh, just say it), yes,
life is so beautiful.