Candles burn. Flames flicker,
speaking to me of death,
still to come.
My black robed lady of the outcast
looks at me with her bottomless eyes and
her soul grips mine with it’s talon like

The cards say you are wrong.
She shakes her head.
I break eye contact and watch my
cat gazing at her with a familiar indifference.

Death is a blessing, I remark.
It is the ultimate gift.
I am ready.

She leans close to my face and her silence screams
objections so that my ear drums bleed
regret, at the sadness that would follow.

Not mine. But his, and hers and the cat’s, maybe.
الغد… she says. Arabic, for ‘Tomorrow’.
Alright. I say. الغد . Pronounced ‘bookra’
She walks away.
The flickering candle flames stop, and the
air in the room returns back to its heavy quiet.

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