the conversation

he is always near
murmuring;

that fleshless face
speaking
a delirium dialect
to antiseptic walls.

he pants, salivates for the last sip
that runs through my veins;

death always complains
about thirst,

he's the dehydrated
dog lapping
illusions of water
from a bowl.

oblivion will not
be satiated until
he cajoles my foot
to follow
its twin through
void’s stream,
where darkness

continually
flows into itself.