Hollow din of twilight.
He was on a bender, a dance with death that weaved left of center colliding
With a semi tanker, the airbag, metal.
I, too, taunted death, but in my own morose mind, not through wine but through a bloodletting I so craved.
But in that moment when I watched you collide in crushed metal and smoke poof that
primal survival part of me took hold and I ran to you. I watched you
gurgle blood and gasp for each shallow breath. I touched you,
felt the heartbeat intent on life, that futile heartbeat.
It's just a muscle, all brawn. It does not know to quit. And so it pumped and
until your lungs filled with blood and you gurgled.
I told you it would be alright.
But I wanted to believe. I wanted so badly to believe
for you as well as for me.
Intention is everything.
Now, I am haunted by the acrid smell of the alcohol and blood on your breath, I am haunted
by the futile gurgle.
Airbag, blood and alcohol
Did you intend to dance with death?
I had been taunting her, too,
But in your death, I found my salvation.
- for Bradley Dillman 9/29/15