After reading my poetry you put my book down and kiss my nose.
"I hope your voice is always as strong as your bones," you smile.
And I hold you and anchor myself to this time, fore a fear that I may fly away with a small gust of wind.
I hope you don't feel me fading into your arms.
I have started to become small and frail.
I bite my tongue.
I will not tell you to not bet my words on my body because my bones are eroding to a golden colored dust.
By next month, nature shall have taken her course, and I will have vanished into the sun.