Death.
Even without a virus it's
Epidemic.
It's certain.
It's an everyday occurrence, and
Yet, each time it strikes I'm struck by
The mystery of it.
Why can one be living, breathing,
Touching me and in a blink, be gone.
Why?
Why does the body I held and loved
Turn cold, so quickly decay and
Become fit to only bury or burn?
Why?
Why must I face the second or third
Or fifth loss like it's my first?
Why doesn't grief get easier and
Shorter each time?
Why doesn't practice make perfect?
Why?
Why, when it's inescapable, am I
Still surprised when I get the call,
"He's gone," and I say, "I can't believe it."
Why?
Why do I live from day to day as if
Death will skip me?
Why?