When you finally ask me
whether
death
for existence,
language
for betrayal,
pleasure
for pain
are all
really worth
the trade,
with one palm pressed firmly
into the other
and the light
of oblivion
playing on my face,
I shall nod
my head firmly
and falsify the case:
statistically speaking, given
infinite time
and the limited nature
of space—
all that leaves our hands
is bound
to come back—
but no,
of course
not the burdens,
and never
the aches.
